Gotham High: Circus Nights and Circus Frights
by CJ1145
Summary: A freshly recovered Bruce and Barbara spend Halloween night at the traveling Haly's Circus, seeking a little rest and fun. But between strange men out for their new friend's blood, a Gotham U psychiatry major on a vengeful rampage, and a new crime lord pushing Jim Gordon to his wit's end, how can this night end in anything but terror and tears? AU, third in my Gotham High stories
1. Chapter 1

"Rise and shine, Bruce."

Golden light, the barest hint of the coming dawn peeked through the windows of Wayne Manor. The blinds were shut, but not perfectly sealed. Invasive, intrusive, and most of all deeply unwanted light was slowly beginning to illuminate the room.

It was difficult to say when the room had truly become different. The maroon theme was still present, and even predominant, but the monochrome walls were a thing of the past. They were a cream color now, with the more luxurious color an accent more than a choking thing. The walls, once barren, were now adorned with artwork, from verdant landscapes to tranquil cottages lost in some forest that time and space had forgotten about. The curtains of the poster bed had been robbed away; no more sealing up, away from the world. The carpet was light and airy, feeling smooth and comforting to the touch of bare feet.

New furniture had been brought in, several lamps and a desk with a laptop of the highest caliber were beside the door, with a chair pressed up against it made of some wood that, to a cynical mind, was likely from an endangered tree in the heart of the rainforest that, if used properly, could have cured cancer instead.

Several tables with modest potted plants, some plain and others exotic dotted the fringes of the room. And in the corner rested a heavy, cushiony armchair, still as regal and magnificent as the brooding that had once inhabited this section of the manor. An indent was still in the seat, from where a young woman had been sitting for the last fifteen minutes. But the girl had moved, and was now slowly pulling up the blinds. She was dressed simply, a loose purple sweater with a few yellow highlights that the manor's butler had been too polite to point out the tackiness of. Her long red hair was drawn back into a ponytail, so as not to get in the way of her bespectacled eyes on that particular morning. Her smile was as bright and beaming as it had ever been, by her memory; an excellent contrast to the violent, death-wishing glares she was getting from the boy in the poster bed.

Bruce Wayne was roused from the allure of his pillow only reluctantly, and with zero enthusiasm. His short-cropped black hair, usually at least with some effort at styling, was wild and blasting off in every direction when he first awoke. Bags under his still-dull and sleepy eyes suggested that he wasn't quite ready to join the world of the living.

As his vision came into focused, he recognized the girl forcing him to wake.

"Ugh…" he moaned. "Barbara? What you doing here? It's—" he stopped to look at the clock. "it's seven in the morning. _Why is the sun up?_"

The young Miss Gordon replied with a devious smile, saying "We're of the same mind, the sun and I. It's Monday, in case you forgot."

She waltzed over to the bed, sitting down on the side and pointing a teasing finger at her friend.

"And according to Alfred, _you _have a clean bill of health. So, time to get you back to Gotham High."

"Give me ten minutes." Bruce groaned, rolling on his side to look away from her. "I'll go find some punk to shoot me again."

"Bruce," Barbara groaned, exasperated. She crawled over and leaned over his side to look him in the eye. "Are you _seriously_ telling me you're not sick of this house yet? You've been cooped up here for nearly two months!"

"_And_ the cave!" Bruce added, as if that made some difference.

"Right." Barbara said with a sarcastic smirk, getting off the bed to allow Bruce to stand. "Clearly, a boy who spends half his day in a cave, surrounded by bats, is the pinnacle of mental health."

"Are you calling me stir-crazy?" Bruce accused, tossing off the sheets and hopping to his feet. "Because I think you're calling me stir-crazy."

Barbara shook her head hopelessly and tossed Bruce a clean-ish shirt that had been set out on the armchair for him last night. He pulled it over his head quickly as she continued to speak. "What I'm calling you is somebody who really needs to get back into the swing of things. Have I told you the rumors going round the school yet?"

"Presumably that I'm some kind of lunatic hermit who's cooped up in a back wing of the mansion, pissing in jars and shunning all human contact and sunlight?"

"And those are just the _boring _ones." She confirmed. She looked away as Bruce pulled on a pair of jeans from his dresser, and took the moment to explain her presence. "Dad left early for work, and Mom's out in Pennsylvania helping my Aunt Cheryl move to a new house. So, I took the opportunity and had Alfred bring me over, to make sure you actually dragged your sorry butt to school today."

"Working overtime again?" Bruce inquired of her father, apparently ignoring the rest of her spiel. He walked over next to her, fully dressed.

"Well, yeah." Barbara said, somewhat uneasily. "It's been almost two months with no sign of Batman. All the punks, crooks and thieves have got themselves believing that the Ventriloquist killed you."

"The who?" Bruce asked. Barbara stammered, mentally smacking herself for using that name. It wasn't one she particularly enjoyed, considering who it was for.

"That's, uh—the villain name, I guess you could call it, that they use for Arnold."

"Oh. How is Arnold?"

"Oh, uh, he's good." Barbara affirmed. She had been diligent in keeping her visits consistent. "I went to Arkham a couple days ago. We played darts. The soft kind."

"That's good." Bruce noted with a soft smile. Arnold Wesker was, by far, the most quiet and well-behaved patient at Arkham Asylum, as the citizens of Gotham called it. It had a much more boring name on legal documents, but the catchier name was what stuck. A plea of insanity had kept him out of Blackgate, and he had very quickly earned himself a privileged place for his cooperation with authorities. He was even a trusted source for Commissioner Jim Gordon, Barbara's father, in identifying various members and safehouses of his old gang, and his rivals too.

"So the crooks really think Batman's gone, huh?" he asked. Barbara nodded at him, leaning against the wall as he gathered his bags for school, tossing in various textbooks and composition books he'd kept lying around to keep up with studies at home. "Well, they'll be in for a treat when I go on patrol tonight—"

_THWACK_

"OW!" Bruce yelped, clutching the back of his head as Barbara waved a rolled up magazine at him.

"Ah-ah-ah," she scolded. "No patrol tonight. My dad bought us tickets to Haly's, and I'm not letting you waste them."

Bruce groaned, his memory coming back to him. Indeed, Jim had bought them two front-row seats for Haly's Circus, an act that, on the East Coast, was more famous than any other act of its kind. If only Bruce cared one iota about the circus, he might have been excited.

"Circuses are boring." Bruce complained. "The animals smell like manure, the trainers smell like the animals, the clowns are clichéd and the acrobats are lame. Can't you just go, and I can patrol around it or something?"

"You really _are_ a workaholic." Barbara noted. "And the answer is no, by the way."

"Fine," he grumbled as Barbara began to walk to the door. "but I'm still bringing the Batsuit."

"Naturally." Barbara said. "Not bringing the suit would be like not bringing your skin." She halted at the doorway and turned around to look back at her friend, still packing. "Listen, I'm gonna go find Alfred and get some food going before we leave. What do you want?"

"Five pounds of bacon and a waffle."

"Scrambled eggs it is. Salsa?"

"None."

"Extra spicy, got it. See you downstairs!"

Barbara beat a hasty retreat, giggling to herself as several words that could never be repeated around formal company were thrown after her. She wasn't quite sure when, but she'd managed to pick up on Bruce's verbal jabs and deliver them back. It was infectious, what could she say?

Wayne Manor was a spacious abode, and just getting from one end to another was like a relaxing stroll through an art museum. All the halls were glowing with the relaxing aura of hanging glass lamps and chandeliers refracting the light every which way. Paintings, etchings and pieces of art that Barbara didn't have words for hung from the walls. That irked her. She'd have to look them up later.

She descended several flights of stairs, and walked down a dozen hallways, going less by memory and more by instinct now. In the days following Bruce's rather severe injury, she made a point to be present in the Manor as often as possible, to help Alfred in his care, and to make sure he actually did the schoolwork she brought him daily. She had grown accustomed to the winding nature of the architecture quickly, and she'd been picking up some strange things about the place.

It was almost built like a fortress. It looked just like any other mansion from the outside, but the floor plan was odd; there were large rooms, separated by long and narrow hallways, usually having no more than two entrances to any given place. Rooms other than these, branching out from the hallways, never led to anywhere else and usually seemed of nominal relevance. There was only one staircase in the entire Manor, and it was constructed in a way that those above could look down at anyone advancing upwards, while still being partially concealed. It all lent itself to the idea of the house being built for a siege.

And that was the puzzle. Bruce was _definitely _of the mindset to build a house like that. But he'd said he actually hadn't really made any modifications to the house since he came to own it.

His parents, and their ancestors, were responsible for all of this. But why?

That was a question she didn't have the answer to, and as such it wasn't something to bother herself with. It was just something to ponder while she made her way down to the kitchen, where the ever-working butler of the Wayne family was finishing up breakfast.

"Ah, hello Miss Barbara." Alfred said, hunched over a counter as he cracked egg yolks into a bowl. "Will Bruce be joining us this morning?"

"Yep, finally dragged him out of the rock he's been living under." She replied, approaching the fridge. The kitchen was nothing spectacular, being built for function over style. That said, Barbara was still under the impression that they had somehow lifted it wholesale from a gourmet restaurant and set it down here. There were entire rows of countertops, as if an entire staff was meant to work here instead of one beleaguered butler.

She found a nearly-empty carton of orange juice within the refrigerator, and chugged the remainder. With an exhalation that almost seemed to leave a cloud of vapor behind, she tossed the carton in a waste bin. "Bruce said he'd be a little while."

"I see." Alfred commented, finishing the eggs and setting them to cook until scrambled. "If that is the case, may I assume why you're already down here?"

Barbara grinned at the butler, a devious feeling overtaking her. "Yep. Is it ready?"

"Absolutely."

The butler led Barbara out the kitchen door and down several hallways before at last coming to an old grandfather clock. Just one of many hidden passageways strewn across the Manor, all leading to a single location.

Alfred reached up to the clock, taking hold of the minute and hour hands, twisting them around to a specific time, 10:47.

The cogs and gears in the grandfather clock began to turn, and the furnishing shifted to the left. A slim arch led down a winding stairwell. The butler entered with Barbara in tow. They descended, going down more flights than could possibly have fit in the Manor. Of course, that wasn't their destination.

After a minute, they reached a doorway, which Alfred pushed open. Before them sat the Batcave, in all its glory. Lights on the ceiling a hundred feet above gave a blue and white light to the rock and steel, platforms strewn with gadgetry and machinery for various needs. And in the farthest corner, where no prying eyes would think to look, sat an innocuous closet.

The butler walked to the door, Barbara standing about five feet back.

"You're sure that this is necessary, Miss Barbara?"

"Absolutely." She replied without a moment's hesitation. "Open it."

The doors to the closet were opened, and inside rested a female mannequin. But what it wore was the real attraction.

"It's only a prototype; I repurposed several older models of Bruce's suit."

Indeed, it was a Batsuit; but not for Bruce—it was custom tailored for Barbara.

From head to toe, the suit was black. At its lowest level, it was a skintight bodysuit, a rubber-like texture and covering everything from the ankles to the collar. Above that was the proper armor of the suit. It appeared to be more like a ceramic armor than Kevlar, with—as Alfred had once explained—both the protection capabilities expected for military-grade armor, and the lightweight materials to permit speed and agility. Boots, with yellow soles; shinpads, kneepads, armoring on the thighs; armguards and gauntlets with yellow-dyed palms and fingertips; a yellow utility belt, as Alfred referred to it, with a black bat on the oval clasp on the center and containing a dozen pods, pouches and canisters for various gadgets; and a breastplate that Barbara swore was being far too forgiving in… volume. Said plate was adorned with the same bat that was embossed on Bruce's suit, but was a yellow outline rather than a darker shade. A cape was clasped to a mantle composed of two plates contorted to fit over the shoulders, and came down to about where Barbara's knees would be. And easily slipped over her head was a balaclava, though made of the same materials as the skintight suit, and revealed her mouth and jaw along with her eyes, with only a discrete hole for her nostrils to breathe through.

Placed on top of that, rather than a cowl that combined the armored aspects of the ceramics and the flexibility of the bodysuit, was placed a fully ceramic helmet, with an armor plate extending down the back of her neck and to her shoulders. It was angular, and gave an admittedly animalistic silhouette, with "ears" notably shorter than those on Bruce's cowl.

All in all, it cut an imposing figure. Barbara stepped closer, reaching out with two fingers to run down one of the armguards. It felt smooth, but cold and like stone. She couldn't resist curling her lips into a smile, and whispered, "Incredible…"

So this was the suit. _Her_ suit. Step one to Batgirl. She turned back to the butler and asked, "So is it wearable, then?" with a hopeful expression.

The butler cleared his throat and said, "Well, assuming the measurements you gave me were accurate—"

"HEY!" Barbara yelped, sucking in her stomach on reflex.

"—then yes," Alfred continued with a playful grin. "it should fit like a glove. Snug, but not constricting. By the time you've finished training, it should feel like a second skin. The finished design, rather."

"And Bruce still doesn't know?" the girl asked, just to be sure. Alfred made a zipping noise across his lips to display silence on the matter.

"As blind as a bat, as the saying goes."

Barbara couldn't call herself a mischievous girl. But then again, she'd lied about plenty of other things. She was a little more excited than she needed to be about surprising Bruce like this. A little voice in the back of her mind called Reason was screaming something about how badly she could be hurt with a lack of training. But she put those thoughts aside. For all his enjoyment of the initial thought, Bruce had been rather reluctant to put any motion into Barbara's "Batgirl" plan. She had yet to get a word of crime-fighting advice out of the stubborn boy, and he clammed up entirely whenever the subject was broached. But this plan was far more airtight than just asking.

_If Bruce sees I can handle myself in a fight, and a crisis situation—and that I'm totally not going to stop, with or without his help—then he'll have no choice but to train me._

Barbara began to take a few steps towards the exit, turning back to say "Thanks, Alfred. Say, could you pack the suit up for me? Gonna bring it to the circus tonight, just in case."

"If you insist, Miss Gordon." The exasperated butler replied. "After all, it _is _Halloween. Heaven forbid two youngsters try and enjoy themselves."

Barbara opted not to respond to that verbal jab, making a brisk pace as she walked back up to the manor proper. It was beginning to feel like a shorter walk every time. She knew multiple routes upstairs now, from all the time she'd spent in the cave with Alfred. She'd chosen the route straight up to the bookshelf she'd first learned of, as the kitchen wasn't dreadfully far from there.

When she made her way there, she found Bruce already waiting and into the food that he'd presumably finished cooking on his own. He looked up at her, and not even bothering with swallowing asked, "Where've you been?"

"Oh, uh, cave." Barbara said, casually pointing with a thumb back the way she came. "Alfred needed help moving some stuff; he'll be up in a minute."

"Why don't I believe you?" he asked, gesturing to a bowl of eggs for her. She quickly slipped into a chair and dug in, responding with a jab of her own.

"Because you don't trust anybody."

"I do!" he insisted. He shoveled another bite in, dripping red with salsa, and gestured a hand toward her. "I trust you."

"And..?" she asked. "Name one other student you trust."

For an unnerving length of time, Bruce was sullen and silent, deep in thought as the fork hung idly from his mouth. He swirled the utensil around a bit to try and help him mull it over.

"…J seems pretty cool?"

"_That'_s comforting." Barbara groaned, trying to suppress a laugh.

They didn't say anything else, preferring to finish their meals while they could. True to form, Alfred arrived in the kitchen mere moments after Barbara downed the last morsel, clutching a thick but small black briefcase in his hands. He handed it off to Barbara, who took it graciously and had to immediately add a little more strength to avoid being floored by its weight.

"I recall you mentioning you wished you had more time in our library." Alfred explained. "I went ahead and made some selections I think you'll enjoy."

"Thank you very much, Alfred." Barbara replied with a nod, catching the butler winking so slightly it could be mistaken for a twitch.

The butler stepped forward, and clasped a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Now then, Master Bruce, I believe the time of judgment is at hand."

Bruce turned to look at Alfred, desperation in his eyes. "Name a price, and I'll pay it. Just don't make me go back to school."

Alfred smiled, and with a tug brought Wayne up to his feet. "The only reward I desire is seeing you with a proper education. To the grind you go."

Barbara strode up beside him as the trio made their way out the front door, towards Bruce's limousine. She jammed his side her elbow and threw up a cheery, only partly faked smile at him. "Just remember," she insisted. "after school, _circus!_"

Bruce gave her a glare. It was of a sort most mortals were not ready to view.

"…Fine." She muttered. "And after the circus, patrol."

Bruce, either mockingly or in a sick sense of pleasure brightened up considerably at that notion, and almost seemed to have a bounce in his step as he came up to the side door, hopping into the limo. To Gotham High he would go.


	2. Chapter 2

_The night before_

Heat, sweat, confusion, and a growing and boiling anger. These were the sensations being experienced by a singular man in Gotham City. He did not know where he was. A burlap sack was pulled over his head; the sounds he heard were muffled, the light coming through was dim and brown, and the only smells were of his own musk and the sweat dripping down his face. He could tell from the strange pulling feelings that they were in an elevator, though in what building he couldn't say. Two hands were clasped tightly around his shoulders. Two separate men, as best as he could tell.

This trip had taken twenty-three minutes and forty-seven seconds so far. He'd run out of questions to ask some time ago, and his "escorts" weren't answering a single word he said. Perhaps they couldn't even hear him through the sack. So now, he counted the moments. It was all he had to ground himself in the reality he felt so detached from right now.

The elevator opened, and he was given a firm but respectful nudge to step out of the elevator. The smell of the place they were in was warm, with bits of potpourri hanging in the air. A ritzy hotel, he was certain of it. He'd stayed in places like this, when the money was good. It wasn't so good right now. But, even now he held out a bit of hope that this coming meeting would change his financial situation.

This had all started like any of his other jobs. A simple, discrete ad in the Gotham Gazette. On the surface, it looked like a personal ad. A charming young socialite looking for someone to spend a few wild evenings with. But any hitman in Gotham knew the code when he saw it: somebody wanted someone else dead. Of course, who better for the job than he? Another man might miss his mark.

But him? He _never_ missed.

He'd sent a response to the ad, sticking to the code so as not to arouse suspicion, through the mail. He sent his own RSVP number, to a line that wouldn't be traced. From there, they would discuss the contract. He was a man with a love of discretion; no need to meet the clients if they did not wish to be met.

Apparently, however, this client wanted to meet him very badly. Badly enough that, in the middle of the night the door to his humble apartment was smashed down, and a quartet of men in pale white masks subdued him, tied him and put a bag over his head, and dragged him out to their car. They'd explained that this was their RSVP for him, and he'd instantly known what was happening.

He still had a few questions, of course. Who would go through all this trouble when he'd given them a damned number? How had they tracked him down so quickly?

His musing was cut short when he felt the man gripping his right shuffle to the right and do… something to the wall. He heard a shifting, grinding noise, like in those old mystery stories when a bookshelf would swivel around if you pulled the right book. They turned him around and pushed him through what he assumed was a hidden passage. He met stairs, and carefully navigated them. Two flights in total, only five steps each. That seemed too little to properly move up from one floor in a building like this. It was a silly notion, but… were they _between_ floors?

Wherever he was, the floor was no longer luxuriously carpeted. His boots hit what felt like some odd kind of tile that absorbed all the sound his footfalls created. Forty paces he walked, the men behind him shifting to all fit through a doorway. He wished he could hold his hands out in front of him, but they were bound tight behind his back. It was a vain hope, as they had finally stopped.

A man pressed on his back, and forced him to his knees. A hand gripped around the bag and some of his hair, and with a yank the burlap came ripping off.

Light glare blinded him, for a moment, but he quickly began to take in the environment. And the environment was taking him in as well.

He was a man in his mid-30s, nothing special in his appearance at first glance. His hair, normally parted on the left side and kept neat was disheveled and chaotic. A patch of beard on his chin was similarly unkempt. His face, pale from a life in the shadows was glistening brightly with sweat, mixed with red in a few areas where blows to his face had broken the skin. His eyes were beady, brown things that quivered with adrenaline as they sought out a threat. What he found was a long, exquisitely carved dining table.

The room he was in was odd, and splintered in its decoration. The walls themselves were ratty, dusty, and seemingly nothing but drywall and construction materials. But they were decorated with paintings, tapestries and Eastern rugs that could only have come from the richest of the rich. The table was stocked with platters of roast duck, scalloped potatoes, and a dozen dishes the man had never been able to afford. But what caught his eyes were the people sitting at the table.

Cloaked in shadow, he could see they wore fine suits and dresses, with livery and jewelry fit for kings. Pearl necklaces hung from the women's necks, and shining gold rings adorned every finger it could be fit on. Eyes glinted off the faint hints of light in the darkness they resided in. One voice, deep and booming, called from the ranks that sat around the table as they watched him.

"Good evening, Floyd Lawton. Thank you for responding to our ad so quickly."

Floyd spat, a gob of blood he'd had swishing around longer than he'd enjoyed splattering the hardwood floor to his right. He glared up at them, and muttered, "I left a number for a reason, y'know."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure you did." Came the airy voice of a woman at the far end of the table. He still couldn't count them all. More than a dozen people, to be sure. "Just as we had our reasons for ignoring it, and bringing you here for a more… personal meeting."

"And what," Floyd growled. "was that reason?"

"To show you, absolutely and beyond the shadow of a doubt," said one man, younger than the others.

"That you are NOT working for some disgruntled pencil pusher, or for a scorned lover out for revenge." Came the elderly crackle of a woman past her prime.

The last voice came from the opposite head of the table. He made out a voice that sounded smooth and exquisite. But worst of all, familiar. He'd heard it before, somewhere…

"To show you that you are working for very important people, with a very _important_ task for you. So that you might comprehend the gravity of your failure, should it occur."

He was feeling the gravity, to be sure. Anyone who went through this much trouble for the equivalent of flexing their pecs had a serious bone to pick with somebody. "That's great and all…" he muttered. "but I still don't know who you want me to whack."

"Oh, that's simple, Floyd Lawton." A distinguished-sounding old gent told him. "As I'm certain you know, the circus is in town."

"Yeah, Haly's Circus." Floyd replied. "Took my daughter a couple years back. What do you want with that dump?"

"We want John and Mary Grayson." Their apparent leader replied. "We do not care how. But the Flying Graysons must die."

Floyd felt an obligation to ask when a question arose in his mind. "I saw the Flying Graysons in action. Don't they have a kid, too? What about him?"

"He is irrelevant to the contract. Leave him alive." The man said, waving his hand to dismiss the notion. "But John and Mary _must_ die."

That was an awful notion, Floyd realized. Killing two parents in cold blood, more than likely with their son watching or discovering them shortly afterwards. It broke a man's heart just to think about it.

With casual stoicism, he asked "How much pay?"

"We only pay those who have earned it." The leader said, leaning forward so that the beady eyes in the shadows might grow brighter in light, all coming from a swinging, solitary lamp above them. "Do you believe you are worthy of being hired, Floyd Lawton? What if you miss?"

"Heh." the guest of honor replied. If they were baiting him like this, then they already knew he was worth it. It was just a formality to tell them, "I _never_ miss."

He couldn't see it, but he knew that man was smiling when he said "Very well, Floyd Lawton. Name your price."

"Oh-ho, don't let me do that." Floyd warned him. "If I'm in charge of these negotiations, I want… six digits."

He was smiling smugly, only to feel his face go numb when the man replied. "We'll give you eight."

A wide, yellow grin split from ear to ear, serving as Floyd's contract seal. "You have yourselves a hitman. But I have one question."

"Speak it."

"…I've heard your voice before. Who _are_ you people?"

And all at once, the atmosphere in the room changed. Where once Floyd had felt a warm, if disturbing sense of regality to the place, only cold and unblinking observation remained. He felt the sweat start up anew as the hairs went up on the back of his neck. One by one the men and women at the table leaned forward, so that their faces might shine in the light.

But the faces were not of men. They were pristine, white, and the eyes were beady and black, as if soulless. No mouths, only a hooked, beak-like nose. The masks contorted and hid the features of their faces entirely, leaving only these soulless abominations as they bore a hole straight into Floyd's soul.

"N-no…" the man muttered, looking at them all. "You're the… You're _real?_ T-that's impossible, you're just a fairy—mmph"

Floyd was cut off as the burlap sack returned, constricting tightly around his head and muffling his speech. The men that had been standing behind him returned, violently pulling him from his place and pulling him towards the door. He tried to scream in protest, but the sack stopped him. He could hear their leader call after him, saying, "Good luck, Floyd Lawton."

And then, like tiny demons whispering a song of damnation in his ear, the men and women of the table joined in a rhyme to carry the assassin out, a rhyme that haunted and taunted every child of the City of Night.

_We watch you in your hearth_

_We watch you in your bed_

_Speak not a whispered word of us_

_Or we'll send the Talon for your head_


	3. Chapter 3

The horn of some irate driver blew, the blare coming in from somewhere outside Commissioner Gordon's window. The man himself sat quietly at his desk, fingers scratching against his peppered mustache. Case files sat on his desk, pulled open and documents strewn about as he labored over them. His office was dim, left in some manner of disarray ever since it was broken into by the man dressed like a Bat. He left his window open, but the GPD headquarters had been carefully arranged, he determined, so that its Commissioner could never see the light of day, nor the slightest hint of the sun. His window stared straight out into steel and concrete.

Finding no solace in the outside world, he returned to his work.

It was a man of the law's worst nightmare. Two months, with no sightings of the Batman anywhere. Criminals were a superstitious lot; they feared that symbol, he couldn't deny that now. But with the Bat gone, they were feeling empowered. Crime rates soared, the homicide rate alone had tripled. But that wasn't the worst of it.

He sat in his chair, hands cradling his aching skull as he read the name of his latest case: Wilson. That was all they had on him. One name alone. Not a face, not a race, not even the slightest idea what he _wanted._ He'd appeared on October 1st, precisely. He meant it literally. At midnight, the first second of the day, Gotham Iron Bank went up in flames. Twenty masked men stole into the building, and made off with over 60% of its tender before his department even caught word. All they found as evidence at the crime scene was this name, and a warning directly to Gordon.

"_Our chase begins, Commissioner. Your first task is to determine who will be doing the chasing."_

That note haunted him for the next thirty days. First it was the robbery, but things scaled up quickly. This Wilson had led his department on a wild goose chase all over the city. They'd busted into a dozen empty warehouses on the waterfront, thinking they'd found him. So far all they'd found was dust. Meanwhile, he'd been dangling his crimes in their faces.

A knock came from his door. "Come in," he groaned, already knowing who was there. Three officers walked in, taking seats at chairs already set out for them earlier. It'd been a simple choice, in his mind. A man like this had to be pursued, relentlessly, by the best his department had to offer.

His department didn't have a "best". They had corrupt, and they had honest. The three he had staring at him made up the honest portion.

On the far left was a youthful man, ears jutting out just a bit too far, to give him that "good boy" look. His hair was short, brown, and parted to the right in a conservative cut. Narrow brown eyes spoke of personal suffering—though Gordon chose not to ask of it—that seemed only to further his love for the force. This was former-Lieutenant John Blake. Like the other two, recently promoted to Detective to have full operational freedom for the tasks that Jim would be assigning them. By far, Gordon's most trusted man, a by-the-book cop, but fully aware of the fact that justice came before rules. Infamous amongst the rest of the department for the night he participated in a massive drug bust in Crime Alley. Not only did they find the largest meth lab in the state, Blake had brought in the entire ring by coordinating an assault on the single night they'd all be present to pick up their shipments, and coordinate future efforts.

That'd have earned any officer a promotion. But Blake went a step further, arresting every single member of the task force he'd requested for the bust afterwards, using testimony from the suspects they helped arrest, and records from the lab they busted, to prove that they were all either customers, or in on the deal. It was only natural that Jim would love a young man that dedicated to the force.

The one in the middle was a Latina woman, not much older than Blake but with a far more severe countenance. Her wavy hair was pulled back into a ponytail hanging behind her, and her eyes scanned the room quietly before settling on the case files. Full features, and a subtly muscled frame complemented the senior-most officer of Gordon's recruits. Renee Montoya was an officer that Gordon worked with on a regular basis, though before he had a say in employment she often hung onto her job by the skin of her teeth. The higher-ups had a special distaste for how personally Detective Montoya took her cases. The red in her ledger came from a case back in 2007, when the Falcones took a busload of people hostage, stealing them away to some dark and unknown corner of the city. Among those people were Montoya's mother and young sister. What followed was what Jim fondly looked back on as a "crusade". Montoya dropped her current case, going on a one-woman hunt through the city and tearing up every punk she could find until she got answers.

Jim and his fellow officers finally tracked her down to a club on the west side, to find more bullet holes than wall, and a sextet of men cowering on their knees. Montoya escorted them out, along with the hostages. Not one casualty.

The cowboy attitude could be a problem, Jim admitted. But then, somebody who cared was a valuable asset. She was perfect.

The last man on their force… perhaps a little less perfect. The man furthest right was younger than Montoya, though he didn't look it. He didn't have a face, he had a mug. A surly, scowling type with a prominent lower lip from getting it swollen so many times in fights. Blue eyes that shimmered with a distaste so broad that no list could ever be compiled of his hated subjects. His messy red hair was slicked back with the barest minimum of effort, and he slouched in his chair with arms crossed as he stared at the Commissioner. This was Victor Sage, the black sheep of the Gotham PD. A laundry list of misdemeanors and brutality so long it could stretch all the way to Metropolis. Jim could define Blake or Montoya with a single shining moment. Sage had a dozen, and none of them were shinier than mud.

He'd beaten a drug dealer within an inch of his life after finding out he sold goods to children. He'd tossed two petty thieves off a third-story rooftop after breaking their hands in the most one-sided fight Gordon had ever seen. Naturally, this was before Batman appeared. He'd shot a bank robber in the head after he took a hostage, shaming the department's sniper team—and with a handgun, at fifty yards, no less.

Then there were the mental issues. To call Sage a conspiracy theorist would be an understatement so gross that proper, lesser nutjobs would feel offended to being compared to him. Jim had been in Victor's apartment precisely once, to consult privately on a case. He'd sworn never to go back. Polaroids were glued and taped and stapled to every inch of the walls, frantic streaks of permanent marker connecting their contents in confusing, eldritch patterns. He'd gone on muttering how it was all connected, one big scam pulled on the entire human race. Jim was sure he'd been told the details, but he was a man of strong will, and he'd repressed more traumatic memories than that.

But, he supposed that wasn't giving the newly minted Detective enough credit. He'd earned his spot on this team. Despite his eccentricities, or maybe because of them, he was utterly incorruptible. A would-be briber could expect a healthy dose of hurt after striking up a conversation with him. And he was a downright genius when it came to investigative work, shockingly; enough to earn a saner man the promotion without any involvement from the Commissioner. And, skewed as it was, the man had a heart. That was a precious resource, and Jim was certain he wouldn't waste it.

But between Blake and Montoya was an empty chair. Not one of Gordon's choices, a new man being shipped in from Central City's department. Supposedly quite the dependable detective, though from what the Gotham native was seeing, that didn't apply to his schedule.

Jim sighed, rubbing his temple with one hand as the other fished a cigar from a desk drawer. He shoved it into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth and thankful for the texture, before asking "Anybody have a clue where the new guy's at?"

The trio made motions to begin speaking, likely with wildly varying guesses, before they turned around to stare out the door. It could barely be heard, but there was some kind of commotion at the front desk. Voices were exchanging harsh words, one of them in a thick city-slicker accent; one could be forgiven for thinking he'd come from Chicago. Victor turned around quickly, apparently satisfied with what he'd heard, but Blake opted to stand and step outside, looking over the railing down at the source of the noise. Gordon followed, with Montoya pursuing a moment later.

Whoever was responsible for this was a very husky man, and with a height to match. Caucasian as best as they could tell. He was dressed in khakis and a dress shirt with rolled up sleeves, a red tie hanging loosely and poorly knotted. A brown trenchcoat went over all of this, hanging down to just below his knees. He wore a matching fedora cap, sending strands of messy black hair in every direction beneath it. A cigarette hung precariously from the corner of his mouth, looking closer to dropping with every word.

"…don't care who the hell failed to call ahead! Look at my badge! Is that me? It's me! Good _day_, lady!"

The man stormed past the desk, ignoring the secretary's protests as he marched up the stairs, coming down towards Gordon's office and stopping three paces away. He held up a badge, and Jim recognized their late arrival.

"Detective Harvey Bullock, reporting in."

Jim nodded vacantly, his mind already analyzing what he'd seen just there. _Loud, boisterous, and a temper like a rabid wolf. I hope this isn't some kind of prank…_

With a wave, Gordon directed the three detectives back to their seats before taking his own. He slumped back down into his chair and got a better look at this Bullock fellow.

His face was pudgy, and scowling, with beady brown eyes and a Neanderthal's brow to go with his second chin. His lips were large and puffy, and his nose was bulbous. A thoroughly ugly man; not that Jim cared much. He was just praying that the heart of his new recruit was a bit prettier.

Victor gave an aside glance to the newcomer. In a low, smooth voice, he commented, "You're late."

Harvey gave a dirty look back and responded, "You ever try getting somewhere fast in this rathole? I swear, not more than one cop per ten square miles around here."

"Might as well be." Montoya informed him, a distinctly formal tone being used. "We don't have time to dole out speeding tickets when half the force is trailing a psychopath."

"That's enough." Gordon announced, raising his thin voice a little to get the message across. He gestured to the case file. "No point in squabbling when we've got a job to do. Have you been briefed, Detective Bullock?"

The trenchcoated man shrugged, scratching a bit of fat on the left side of his neck. "They didn't tell me much," he admitted. "just that we were tracking some up-and-coming crime lord named Wilson."

"That's about all we know, actually." Blake chimed in. "We know his last name is Wilson. We know that he's been hitting areas that either fund him, or grant him some kind of technology."

"Precisely." Gordon agreed, pointing out several hits that had gone down in the last month. "On the 7th he hit the steel mill the next county over, made off with more machinery and building materials than one man should know what to do with. On the 18th he hit Powers Robotics, stole an entire production line's worth of circuitry and more trade secrets than a CEO could shake a stick at."

The last one worried him the most, though. "And on the 27th, he hit an armored convoy being delivered to WayneTech from Star Labs, over in Metropolis. Ransacked the entire convoy, and made off with over three dozen "WorkerBeeZ" droid shells."

"Worker-what what shells?" Bullock asked, the cigarette nearly dropping out of his mouth as he tried to make sense of the tech speak. Luckily, Detective Montoya stepped in to inform him.

"They're experimental tech," she informed him. "a type of mobile, humanoid robot meant to replace living workers in dangerous environments. It could revitalize American industry by providing an impervious workforce."

"Impossible." Sage scoffed. Renee leaned over to give him a steely glare, which he took in stride. After a moment he opted to explain his skepticism. His gestures started off subtle, but began to grow wilder and more animated as he spoke. "Even if implemented, the droids will still require maintenance, upkeep, a staff of tech specialists to keep them running. No, they want the droids for a different reason: they're _stupid._ No free thinking, no civil rights, no unions. They're the perfect, complacent replacements to humanity. Wilson knows this, and he's beating the corporations to the punch. Constructing a _robot army_, to weed out the weak and the fleshy, monopolizing the tech to place himself as the sole remaining man standing at the top of a mountain of blood and steel—"

"OKAY, Detective, I think we've heard enough." Gordon yelled, reprimanding the zealous officer. Sage sulked in his seat, muttering to himself.

"Maybe you've heard enough. But have you seen enough?"

Jim made the wise choice not to respond to that, instead turning back to Bullock. "There you have it, Detective Bullock. That's all we know on the man. His name, his crimes—"

"And his toothpaste."

The other four heads in the room whipped around to stare, befuddled, at Victor once again. The man was looking unusually calm as he caught their glances.

"Colgate." He mentioned. "The smell's been at every crime scene, even where it doesn't belong."

He paused, drinking in the silence as a look of confusion grew on the detective's face. "You're telling me none of you caught that?"

The other officers shared a glance, a silent pact to pretend that hadn't happened. Gordon continued as if he'd never been cut off.

"—and now we're almost certain he's planning something for the last day of the month, considering he started this chase on the first day. Twenty-four hours to catch a man we have zero leads on."

"And how do ya suppose we do that?" Harvey asked incredulously.

"Any way we can." The Commissioner informed him, slamming his hands on the table to support his body as it stood. "Because we cannot allow ourselves to fail."

He grabbed four case files, and handed them off to the detectives. As they took them, he explained, "We'll be splitting up to cover ground, but I want to be in constant contact with you, and I want you to keep in touch with each other as well. Share any leads you find, any clues. Detective Blake, you'll be with our immigrant here."

"Aye, Commissioner." John acknowledged. He stood up with Harvey and shook his hand with a strong grip. "It'll be pleasure working with you, Detective Bullock; should we take your car, or mine?"

"Eh, let's go with yours." Bullock said, walking out the door with his partner. "My car's a little too nice for this city; don't feel like getting my hubcaps jacked."

After they were gone, Montoya raised a hand and stated "With all due respect, Commissioner, I work best alone."

"I know you do, Montoya." Gordon assured her. "You're free to go. You'll be going solo on this case."

"Aye, Commissioner." She replied. She took her case file and dutifully marched away, leaving only Sage fidgeting in his seat. In a manner both repetitious and mocking of Montoya's, he raised his hand and said, "I work best alone as well, Co—"

"I have _yet_ to see that, detective." Gordon cut in. He picked him up out of his chair and motioned for the man to walk with him. "You'll be working with me on this case."

Victor raised a wary eyebrow at Jim, questioning this move. "If you're leaving the station, I suppose you have a lead."

"A couple, actually. I'm not trying to imply anything, Sage, but have you ever been to Arkham?"


	4. Chapter 4

11:45 AM. It was still morning in Gotham City, and there was no respite in sight for the beleaguered students of Gotham High. The students were lined up neatly in their desks, staring with crushing apathy at their teacher, Mr. Murdock. A young man with scruffy brown hair, thick-framed eyeglasses, and a suit too fancy to be teaching this rabble in. He was up at the whiteboard, speaking with youthful enthusiasm as he described today's assignment.

"All right kids," he said, ignorant to the irony of referring to his juniors by about seven years as kids. "it took a lot of string pulling, a lot of convincing, and a little more work than I care to remember, but this class is going to be your last today!"

A loud chorus of cheers erupted from the class, tossing pencils and papers into the air with deliberately exaggerated enthusiasm.

"You'll be spending the rest of the school day participating in the project I've cooked up!"

The cheering died. A yowling cat caught beneath a falling tree wouldn't have been so abrupt in shutting up. Ice cold glares pierced Murdock's skin.

At the back of class, Barbara's face was half-buried in her arms, only her eyes free enough to show her blatant lack of enthusiasm. When a day is all but guaranteed to be the time of your life as soon as you finish one stupid chore, it's pretty easy to start hating that chore beyond rational sense. And right now? School was one hell of a chore.

"Now, now," Murdock said, making calming motions with his hands. "I know that sounds pretty… awful, but this is gonna be fun, I swear! We're gonna make this project a game, with a prize for the winner!"

"Last time somebody said that, I got _shot_!" retorted one Bruce Wayne, lounging in the corner of the room. A moment of stunned silence came, as courtesy dictated, before his classmates finally lost it. They all bent over, laughing out every puff of air they had in their lungs.

Gordon glanced over at her friend, and disapproved with nothing more than a simple glare; that was plenty to get her point across. He responded with a cheesy smile and a slight blush, just enough to admit guilt without actually feeling guilty. She rolled her eyes and directed her attention back to Mr. Murdock, who had written everyone's names on the board in clusters of three.

"See, what I've set up today is… a mystery!"

The lights shut off in the room, startling a few of the jumpier students. A flashlight their teacher was clutching switched on, to a vacant spot on the floor. He began to narrate the hypothetical situation.

"In this test of your problem-solving skills, you'll be challenged with the most heinous of crimes: murder!"

A silhouette entered the room, moaning in faked pain as he clutched his chest. Barbara looked with the others, and had to clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle laughter. It was Professor Doll, with a fake hatchet lodged in his chest and copious amounts of stage blood dripping down his clothes. He looked as thoroughly displeased with this project as the students, hamming it up as he approached. He laid down on his back and froze with a face crossed between "death throe" and "going to commit some murders of his own". His eyes were fixed squarely on Mr. Murdock, who by now was almost laughing along with his students.

"When you came to class this morning," Murdock told them. "you discovered your teacher collapsed in a bloody heap, an axe in his chest. You'll be split up into teams of three, and will be searching for clues in this room and through all the hallways on the first floor, to try and learn what happened. And when your group thinks they've found the answer, they'll come back and tell me:"

He stopped to throw on a replica policeman's cap.

"Officer Murdock!"

Barbara shrugged to herself. It wouldn't be the worst way to spend the day, at least. The only question was who she'd get stuck with. Murdock was already busy listing off names. J had been placed with that strange, bald kid with the shades, and some other redhead that she had yet to introduce herself to. Pam, was it? This was the only class they shared, so there wasn't much time—or reason—to get to know one another.

"Group number four: Bruce Wayne, Nora Tess, and… Eric Needham."

Barbara's face dropped, disappointed. So much for fun. Unless she was mistaken, the only others left besides her were—

"Group number five: Edward Nashton, Weylon Jones, and Barbara Gordon! And that's everyone!"

Great. Juuuust great. The stalker nerd, and the dumb jock. She cast an envious glare towards Bruce, and the semi-passable group he'd gotten. Particularly at Nora. She recognized that name, all right. A cheerleader. Vapid, shallow airheads with nothing better to do than shake their butts in front of a live audience. As the other girl happened to glance her way, Gordon made fully sure that she got a good look at the death glare she was getting. Short, bobbed blond hair, glimmering blue eyes and a winning smile. Barbara supposed idiots like that needed to be compensated somehow. Speaking of idiots…

"I guess it's your lucky day, eh Babs?"

"…Yeah, Eddie. Lucky me."

Eddie slid into the chair next to her, practically giddy with excitement. With Bruce gone the last month of class, there weren't many people left for Barbara to talk with. That had left Eddie as the closest thing she had to a best friend. She was able to forgive many things, she assured herself. It just so happened that arrogance was not one of them. Eddie had taken his crushing defeat at the talent show in stride, and opted instead of divert his efforts to showing off his intelligence. She also noted that, ever since said talent show, he had worn the suit J gave him whenever possible. It gave the appearance of someone with far more confidence that competence.

"I mean, really, you should be thankful; I've already got this little mystery, this… enigma, I suppose as good as wrapped up! You're pretty much getting a free grade."

She had learned to decipher his stuck-up mannerisms that he'd gained. Or, as Barbara referred to it in private company, his douche-anese. This meant that he was going to solve the whole thing all on himself, in a desperate attempt to impress Barbara so that she would go out with him.

She wasn't _completely_ callous to the kid. He was sweet, or at least he was capable of being sweet, after being separated from J for a minimum of one week. But he wasn't her type; and his attempts to become her type weren't doing him any favors.

She didn't progress much further before the second member of her little troupe joined them. A tall, broad-shouldered kid, even bigger than Bruce in a letterman jacket. In size, not musculature, Barbara was certain. His dark skin glistened, sweating uncomfortably in the heat of the room. He sat down in the seat in front of her, twisting himself around to look back at Eddie and her. He flashed a friendly sort of smile, clearly uncomfortable with talking to them; it was true, she and the big lug had never communicated. Bruce seemed to talk with him a lot, but it all seemed like shallow, bro-talk stuff to Barbara.

"Hey; uh, name's Weylon. Pleasure workin' with ya." He extended a hand to each of them, and they both shook as was expected. Barbara nodded and smiled pleasantly.

"Nice to meet you too; I'm Barbara."

"Eddie." The smallest of their group stated. "Eddie Nashton; say, your name was Weylon _Jones_, right?"

"Uh, yeah, that's right." Weylon confirmed in his ludicrously deep, baritone voice.

"So then, would that make your dad _the_ Marlon 'Bourbon' Jones, star quarterback of the '82 Gotham Great Horns?"

Weylon chuckled, wiping a beat of sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. "Heh, yeah, that'd be my daddy, all right. Wearin' his jacket, in fact." He gestured at the thing, and true to his word it looked a _lot_ older than he did. Barbara glanced over at Eddie, curious.

"I didn't know you knew sports stuff."

Eddie flashed a proud grin at her, adjusting his glasses as his teeth shone in the dim classroom. "I know a lot of things!"

"Now that you're all divided up," Murdock informed them. "You'll have the rest of the day to carry out your investigations. My fellow teachers on this floor all have a role to play, so remember to find out just how they're involved in this! Feel free to stop for lunch, and remember: bonus prize goes to the group that gets the right answer first!"

That was one heck of an incentive, and the groups began buzzing about frantically. J dragged his group out the door, convinced that the answer to their mystery had little, if anything, to do with the corpse. The bald boy he took with him took a moment to look longingly at the girl in Bruce's group as he was dragged away. To the redhead's surprise, she returned the gaze with a smile and a little wave.

A third group, down a man since Oswald Cobblepot never went to class, followed J out the door to try and track down their third companion to get some work done.

Bruce's, naturally, took the logical route and crouched down around the body to get some work done. As the last one bantered amongst themselves, Barbara stood up, the other two following her example. She really wished right then that she had a deer stalker hat to wear, to fit the detective look a bit more closely.

"All right boys," she said with a sigh. She pulled down the brim of her imaginary hat as she approached the body. "let's get sleuthing."

_Call it practice._ She told herself. _A fake mystery, so you'll be ready to start solving real ones._


	5. Chapter 5

_Pleased to meet you_

_Hope you guess my name_

_But what's puzzling you_

_Is the nature of my—KRZZH _

The radio dial clicked four ways to the right.

_And I'm talking to myself at night_

_Because I can't forget_

_Back and forth through my mind_

_Behind a cigarette_

Jim Gordon leered sideways at Detective Sage, who had just changed the radio channel. In _his_ cruiser. He could swear, Scout's honor, that he'd never heard the drivel on the airwaves right then in his life. Victor, however, seemed to be enjoying himself, humming along to the lyrics as if they were coming right out of his own head.

"Don't tell me you actually _like_ all this new crap they're playing?" the Commissioner asked.

Victor looked at him as if he were insane. He shrugged and said, "It's catchy. You don't think it's catchy?"

"I don't think it's anything!" Jim retorted, nearly throwing his hands in the air before he remembered that there was a car he needed to be driving. He promptly slammed his hands back on the wheel, heart pounding as he checked the road for oncoming vehicles he might be swerving towards. There weren't any; he'd already known that, but he'd hoped to play it safe. They were on the road to Arkham Island, a place few dared to visit. Gordon and his "partner", however, had special justification.

A prime informant was staying in these walls, and it was time to see what he knew about this "Wilson" character. A new face probably wouldn't be something his informant knew a lot about. But it was worth a shot; better than the steaming pile of nothing his case had built up over the last month.

Jim's cruiser had been the only car on the road for a while now, silently adding trees on either side draping the path in a brilliant array of colored leaves. Earthy hues gave the frigid Gotham air a deceptive look of warmth as they reached a bridge, crossing over something like a cross between a moat and a river. On the other side, some four hundred meters into what qualified as a piece of the Atlantic Ocean, was the Island itself. Arkham Asylum, as the populace knew it, was less the singular old madhouse that the citizens imagined in their minds, and more of a complex that happened to grow out from a singular old madhouse.

In fact, by technicality there were two islands. Gordon reached the first at the far end of the bridge, parking his cruiser in the parking lot that this little patch of dirt and rock served as. He and Victor stepped out wordless, Gordon personally thankful for that blasted music to be off. The Detective was quite the card, and it was a constant test of the Commissioner's patience to work with him. The entire car ride had been an insightful peek into the mind of conspiracy theorists, though he'd managed to block out most of the details. Memory repression: the only superpower Jim Gordon ever needed.

Victor reached into one of his coat pockets and fished out a cigarette, taking a grummy old lighter to set off the tip. He offered a light to his fellow officer, but Gordon refused. A sour recollection of the verbal lashing his wife and daughter had given him on the subject of tobacco was fresh in his mind, and more out of self-preservation than anything else he intended to honor their wishes.

A wrought iron gate met the policemen at the far end of the lot, luckily enough wide open during the working hours. It was impressive, to say the least, at least fifteen feet in height and decorated with gothic and ornate patterns from the earliest days of the city. It was said that Amadeus Arkham, one of the first citizens of Gotham, had created the Asylum by renovating his own home here on the island. Of course, that same story went on to say he became some sort of crazed sadist, and had to be locked up in his own loony bin, so Jim didn't lend much thought to the old tale.

Something like a thousand stair steps carried them across a second moat, to the main island. The main building of the complex was waiting for them as soon as they crossed, with a young woman in a tan skirt and blue blouse was waiting for them. She gave a polite, company-mandated wave and bow as they approached.

"Ah, Commissioner Gordon!" she said happily, recognizing him. "It's always a pleasure to see you here at Arkham!" she turned towards Sage and added with a smile, "And I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting, Mr…?"

"Victor Sage." The Detective responded, nodding curtly. "A pleasure, Ms. Parker."

Jim gave a discreet glare at Victor, about to question what weird stalker-y things he'd been getting up to; he stopped when he noted the prominent nametag on the greeter. He gave himself a mental smack, and tried to get his head back on track.

He nodded to Ms. Parker, and told her "We're here to speak to our usual host. Is he available?"

"Of course, Commisioner!" the young lady said with a smile. "If you'll follow me, we'll have him brought up. I'm sure he'll be happy to speak with you."

She led the pair inside, and they were met with a very ornate building. The phrase was used with only a hint of irony, as while the interior was a bit crummier than it likely should have been, there was some very beautiful architecture in the old facilities. Gordon silently expressed the idea that working in a place like this would be a nice change of pace. A _building_ like this, he corrected. He had enough problems with Gotham's kooks while they were on the outside of these walls, he couldn't bear dealing with them on such a permanent basis. He glanced over at a computer terminal as they passed through an area where a few techs were compiling data of some sort. A name caught his eye as they passed: Garfield Lynns. Or, as he'd insisted to be called in court, "Firefly". The man was a pyromaniac at first glance—but that wasn't really a dangerous condition on its own. A man with a fixation to fire drew up unsavory images for those tuned into pop culture, but your average sane individual could find safe, non-damaging ways to burn things when the "urge" arose.

No, what Garfield was was a bona fide sociopath, with a bit of a god complex to boot. Just a punk with some fancy toys who got some fancy ideas and a half-baked plan to spread chaos. He'd gotten his in the end.

_No thanks to me…_

He shut that though out. A dangerous path laid down that road. He'd considered the implications of that day more than once. Batman had saved the day, faster and more effectively than the police ever could have; if he hadn't, then the whole school might have burned down.

His little angel might have…

He shut his whole mind down, forcing himself not to think any further on it. The past was the past, and considering possible outcomes to things he could no longer change would do him no good. He'd told himself that more than once. But it never seemed to change the truth of the matter. His thoughts led him back to the same conclusion as they always did: he owed Batman; the whole city id. And although he hated to admit it, the Bat had to come back. And soon.

But that could wait until the end of one little interview. A door was opened, and Jim finally realized they'd reached their destination. The room inside was dark, and terribly simple. White walls, and only a single overhanging lamp to illuminate the place. A bare-bones table and three chairs, two on the opposite side from the third. This was where he always met his contact. Their receiver sat them down, and offered them drinks; Gordon declined, but Victor requested lemon juice.

"Of course, one lemonade coming right up." Their host replied, but Sage held up a hand, stopping her.

"You misunderstood." He informed her brusquely. "I asked for lemon juice."

Her eyebrows went up and her face soured as she realized what he meant, but the young woman caught herself quickly and adjusted back into that diplomatic smile. "O-of course!" she stammered, disbelieving. "Lemon juice, coming… right up. Your friend should be up soon!"

She shut the door behind her, leaving Gordon and Detective Sage sitting in deep silence. Jim just looked to his side at his subordinate and leered for a minute.

"…Lemon juice?"

"Two glasses a day." Victor informed him, holding up a pair of fingers to illustrate, as if it helped his case somehow. "Keeps the mind sharp, and resistant to probes."

"…Probes." Jim repeated, just to make sure Victor had really said that.

"Mental probes. ESP." Vic replied. "Common extraterrestrial information-gathering technique; but their sense of taste is heavily amplified while probing. Sour food and drinks leaves your mind with an unpleasant taste; they'll leave you alone."

Jim just looked away. Yet another path he knew not to follow.

Several minutes passed, in which time Victor received his lemon juice. He downed it in a gulp and a half, ending the only distraction they had while Gordon's contact as retrieved from deep within Arkham.

Sometime later, the door opened at last. Jim and Vic met the eyes of the young boy standing in the frame of light from outside. Skinny, blond, bespectacled and in the Arkham standard uniform. He took his seat in the chair, and gave a polite if timid smile.

"G-good morning, Commissioner." Arnold Wesker began with a slight bow of his head.

"Hello, Arnold." Jim spoke back, smiling warmly. A quick glance confirmed that Victor did not share his expression, staring down at the informant with a rather steely glare. Jim could already see the young boy fidgeting under the stare, but not entirely out of fear. Jim was no psychologist, but he'd heard the story of this boy. As best as he figured, all of Arnold's rage was going into that dummy he carried with him. The one called Scarface. But that puppet was long gone; and as far as Jim knew, all the rage that used to be funneled into it had to be going _somewhere_. Arnold was dealing with it all on his own now, and it was frankly surprising he'd been doing so well. No need to make it harder on him.

Jim reached, under the table, and gave a disguised jab to Victor's side, letting him know to back off. Almost to the Commissioner's surprise, Vic seemed to relent as ordered. He still took the lead in discussion, though.

"My name is Detective Sage." Victor began, reaching into his heavy cat and pulled out a small folder, throwing it down on the table. Pictures of places hit, and a few shots of victims were sprinkled through the various photographs within. Arnold gave a glance over the pictures, obviously confused as he tried to "recall" the people and places.

Barbara had given her father the details on the boy, and he seemed remarkably apt at genuinely considering Scarface a separate person. It took considerable effort to recall the thoughts and experiences of the dummy.

"What… is this about?" Arnold asked.

"Newest case." Victor replied, cutting in before Jim could. "Man that goes by the name of 'Wilson', he's been robbing high tech targets and toying with us for a month. We need everything you've got on him."

Arnold scrunched his face up, trying to remember, but I quickly became apparent it was a vain effort. He shook his head, frowning in disappointment with himself. "I-I'm sorry, Commissioner; and Detective. I don't Scarface or I ever heard of a man named 'Wilson'. W-we… he… _I _was still fairly new on the scene, and was more concerned with the big mob heads to be dealt with."

He perked up, apparently on a new tangent. "Oh, b-but! Those bosses, they might know some things! I remember that Sionis, in particular, was proficient at tracking the newest faces and talent in Gotham!"

Jim grinned for an instant. He'd come here in desperation, with no other leads to turn to. He honestly hadn't expected much from Wesker this time, but he'd delivered. Only one problem persisted, which Sage commented on with a raised finger to halt that train of thought.

"I forsee an issue: how do we bring in a mob head for questioning? Heavily guarded, _extremely_ careful not to make visible crimes to be prosecuted on. And kidnapping would just attract Wilson's attention, he'd be two steps ahead of us."

"Not to mention, it would be _illegal._" Jim reminded his partner. Vic shifted in his seat, nervously coughing into his fist in some odd manner of deflecting the stab at him.

Arnold twiddled his thumbs, looking positively giddy as his brain worked. "I think I might have a way around that! There's a young waiter who works at the Sicilian restaurant your, er, daughter and I, Commissioner, went to. He doesn't work for him, but he's the biological nephew of Roman Sionis. So, er, he might be the key to setting up a meeting, or otherwise getting the information you need?"

"As a matter of fact," Jim said. "that's _exactly _what we needed."

He stood, and shook the boy's hand. "Thank you again for your cooperation, Mr. Wesker."

* * *

Several minutes later, the Commissioner and his Detective were leaving the Asylum, Victor lighting up another smoke as Jim dialed a number on his cell phone. He put the device up to his ear, and waited a moment as it rang. A few seconds later, he heard a click, and a voice on the other end answered.

"Hello?" came the familiar voice of John Blake.

"Blake, it's Gordon." The older man said, opening up the door to his cruiser. "Just got a lead; you have anything yet?"

"Anything but." John told him, sounding rather disappointed. "Found an old haunt with a few loose-tongued friends of mine burned straight to the ground. Wilson knows we're coming, sir."

Jim cursed under his breath. Predictable, but still frustrating. They'd need to act fast to protect what leads they had left. "Listen, I need to know how close you are to the center of town, where they've got all the restaurants?"

"Wood and Marshall streets, sir?" John asked. "Not far at all, we're maybe two minutes away."

"Okay, that's perfect." Replied the Commissioner. "I need you and Bullock to head there right now, there's a waiter in the Sicilian place, goes by the name of Remil Sionis. Get him somewhere safe, and find out if he can squeeze some information out of the big man himself; he's his nephew."

"Absoulutely. And, sir?"

"What is it, Detective?"

"Have you heard from Montoya? Bullock and I tried to reach her, but she isn't picking up."

That spelled trouble to Gordon, who felt nebulous feeling growing in his gut. "No, I haven't Blake. Where was she last seen? Sage and I can check it out."

"She was in the old market district." John replied. "Said she had old friends to check up on."

"Market, right. Good luck, Detective."

Gordon flicked his phone shut and started the engine of his cruiser. He immediately shut off the radio, deciding no music was better than whatever Vic would try to play. He nodded at the Detective in the passenger seat, and told him to buckle up. "We've got a significantly shortened timetable; Wilson's actively moving against us now."

"Sionis?" asked his partner.

"Blake and Bullock have that handled. Right now, we're checking in on Montoya. It's not like her to go comm silent on a case… only time she's done that is…"

Victor watched a change in Jim's expression. In one instant he went from confusion and deep thought to a growing, gripping terror. The blare of sirens wailed above them as Jim slammed on the gas.

* * *

Detective Montoya stepped into an old apartment, sniffing the pungent air. Microwave food, cats, and a thousand varieties of fabric. It certainly smelled like her grandparents' home always did, yet she couldn't help but feel off. It felt wrong, horrifying to be gripping her sidearm as she went into the residence of her own family, but she couldn't take chances.

The tip had been simple enough. The old Tap and Tab, in her old neighborhood; they were crooks, but they were friends first. They grew up together. Anyone who's told you the golden rule of "no snitching" was lying, as far as Montoya was concerned. If it didn't concern their own business, certain loose tongues were more than willing to part with a few tips. And what she'd gotten was… disturbing.

"Poppa? Abuela?" she whispered into the darkness. Nothing. She didn't panic, not yet; they were old, and sometimes their hearing aids weren't up to snuff. She'd just look for them before getting the wrong idea.

That tip still sat in her mind, the snot-nosed punk that she barely recognized as her old neighbor a decade ago sitting at the bar and slurring as he recounted what he'd heard. The name "Wilson" had been going around, mostly in their old neighborhood. Nobody knew what he was up to, just that he had a tendency to swoop in and make off with defenseless folk from their homes. The thought had been unbearable the moment it wriggled its way into her brain. Her grandparents were the only family she still had in the old neighborhood, but they were defenseless all right.

"Poppa! Abuela!" she hissed again, bringing the sidearm higher up, ready to fire if necessary. Still nothing. She stepped through the tiny hall, and into the sitting room they used. It was utterly dark, with the windows pulled and every light off. She only navigated the place by memory, moving for the light switch. She remembered it was on the wall just in front of her… she reached forward, and yelped in surprise as she felt nothing but cold steel.

Just above eye level, a bright, white and pulsating eye opened to look down at her. There was no color, only a striking black pupil that seemed focused for its stark contrast. She resisted the urge to scream, falling back on instinct and aiming her gun up at it. As she squeezed the trigger, she felt a terrible crushing pressure on her hand force her aim up. The bullet was shot off harmlessly into the ceiling, flashing the room long enough for Montoya to see the hidden figure was a man, with an orange plate over half of his face.

"Now now, Renee." The man crooned in a low, smooth tone. "That's no way to treat a guest. Sit down for a minute, and let's _talk…_"


	6. Chapter 6

The ringing of the lunch bell called a temporary ceasing—a truce, in a way—of the vicious sleuthing that had been going on all that morning. Barbara sat down at a table in a corner with Weylon and Eddie, feeling a sensation that she could only describe as her brain in revolt, desperate not to do any more of that blasted _thinking._

"So," Barbara groaned, rubbing her temples as she stared down at her wholly unappetizing meal. Lumpy mashed potatoes, but most certainly not the good kind of lumpy, with a heaping helping of what, in the past, might have been creamed corn. They were situated in a corner of the lunchroom, nowhere near any of the other groups. They weren't too keen on sharing any of the precious information they'd gathered.

That wasn't to say they'd found much. But what little they had was theirs, damn it, and they'd fight to protect it.

"What exactly do we have to work with?" she asked.

Weylon shrugged, looking even wearier than her. She felt almost a little sorry for the poor guy. A man whose life and ambitions resolved around slamming his body against the bodies of other men, whether that be in football or porn, was not cut out for detective work. He'd had his moments, but he was in deeper water than he was ready for.

Eddie, on the other hand, looked as cocky as he had all day. He dug into his meal, happy for any sustenance as he waited, trying to be some kind of gentlemen by letting her and Weylon get their own deductions out of the way first.

"Well," the football player began, scratching his chin thoughtfully as he went over the clues in his mind. "if I had to guess I'd say we have… two suspects."

Each of the teachers on the ground floor, they had quickly discovered, was no longer themselves. They were dressed up and acting the parts of various characters. As best as they had determined, the "deceased" Professor Doll was now Mr. Burken, a local banker. No family of his own, and a very timid man who didn't seem to be the sort to make enemies. Yet, he had been hacked to death by a weapon that seemed very blunt, yet still edged enough to leave gashes. They'd found two hairs on his shirt that clearly were not his own. As it happened, they _did _happen to match Mrs. Jefferson, or Mrs. Strong as she was known today. A homemaker, and wife of their biology teacher-turned "Mr. Strong", a fireman. A little digging had discovered some very scandalous info.

A letter that Weylon had "acquired" from Ozzy's group, addressed from Mrs. Strong to Mr. Burken indicated an adulterous relationship between the two. It had apparently been a very tumultuous one; Burken had decided to come clean to her husband. Within the letter, she was quite literally begging him to reconsider, warning that she was afraid things would get "violent" if Mr. Strong found out.

But that wasn't the only thing dear Mr. Burken had been up to. As a banker, he had access to a lot of funds coming and going. A quick chat with Ms. Fenderson, or rather, his superior at the bank, Ms. Johnson, had revealed he was seen rather often at lunch with a man who wasn't exactly subtle in his operations as a member of the local mob. Eight-Fingers Duke, as they were to call him in this little exercise, had been surprisingly open to their interrogations, suspiciously quick to clear his name. He had been attempting to convince Burken to kick some funds—funds which were already being embezzled towards someone else—his way. Duke insisted that he was close to getting him to agree, too. But then, someone killed him. That was his story, and he stuck to it.

Mr. Strong, and Eight-Fingers Duke. Two individuals.

"I mean, they've both got motives." Weylon said, gesturing with his hand. "Duke might've been lying 'bout getting him close to agreeing. Might've just killed him when he said no."

"True, true…" Barbara said. "But that doesn't explain the weapon." She took her spork between her fingers and shook it, going down the train of thought she was developing. "See, those marks on the body, it doesn't make sense why they'd be so brutal. If it was a mobster, they'd have just shot or shanked the guy—I know it for a fact. I've read some of my dad's case files. It's nothing like knife wounds or bullet wounds… but a hatchet could have done it."

Weylon's eyes widened, and he nodded enthusiastically as he saw where she was going with it. "Yeah!" he agreed, pointing at her and grinning. "I think you might be onto something! I mean, you're probably gonna kill a man with what you've got on hand, right? And what would a _fireman_ have on hand but an axe?"

"Sounds like we've got ourselves a killer." Barbara mused. "When our victim confessed to Mr. Strong, he flew into a rage, grabbed the hatchet, and cut him up. Open and shut case if you ask me."

A derisive snort drew the pair's attentions to Eddie, who had been watching them, amused, this entire time. She scowled at him and asked, "Something to add, Mr. Genius?"

"Really?" he asked, in that overconfident tone he'd acquired as of late. "You're both being extremely short-sighted if you ask me—blind, even."

The tiny boy leaned forward and tried to illustrate his point using his hands. "Allow me to take you on a route of hypotheses for a moment: consider the wording in the letter of our dear Mrs. Strong. All she warned of was violence, should Mr. Strong be alerted of their relationship. She never said from who."

Barbara and Weylon's eyebrows both shot up. They hadn't thought of that; but Eddie wasn't done.

"Now think back to when we talked with Mr. Strong. Did he once suggest he was aware of Burken's relationship with his wife until _after_ the police gave him the whole story?"

"…No," Weylon admitted. "he didn't. But—"

"But nothing!" Eddie hissed, cutting him off. "I mean, think about it. Who would stand to lose the most from being informed of the adultery? Not Mr. Strong, but _his wife._ It was one thing to lose a consort, but getting her marriage destroyed in the process would ruin her credibility, even her life! She had to stop Burken any way she could. So, taking her husband's hatchet, she cut him to bits, knowing the blame would fall on him. He'd be taken off to jail, and she'd be out of a marriage she hated, while simultaneously keeping all the things she'd have lost in a standard divorce!"

Barbara sat there trying to find a way to dispute his logic, but was falling flat. That really seemed to be the obvious answer, now that he'd pointed it out. She sat her chin down into a palm, staring off into the crowd around the lunchroom; specifically, at Bruce's table. She watched his trio's interactions carefully, wishing against all hope that she'd be gifted with superhearing at that precise moment.

They didn't even look like they were talking about their assignment; the three of them were shoveling food into their mouths, guffawing at some joke Barbara wasn't privy to. She gave the group a jealous leer, before lazily looking back at her own. She sighed in defeat, and grabbed her plate, ready to toss it away.

"I guess that's as good of a guess as we're gonna get. Come on," she said as she stood. "let's go find our teacher."

* * *

"—therefore, we posit that Mrs. Strong, and ONLY Mrs. Strong could be the killer!" cried Eddie, jabbing a finger into the air to punctuate his sentence.

Barbara and Weylon lounged in desks behind him, arms crossed and waiting for the little man to finish his overly-long justification for their choice of killer. Mr. Murdock looked at him with a curious, analytical gaze. After deliberating it a moment, his lips flapped apart to say something. He was cut off by the sound of a slamming door as Bruce Wayne led his group into the room, panting and bending over to clutch at their knees as if they'd sprinted the whole way.

"W—_phyoo_—wait, Mr. Murdock!" Bruce exclaimed, holding out a hand. He stumbled closer, still gasping as he continued. "We know—_haahh_—we know who the killer is! Are we too late?"

Eddie gave a sadistic little smirk as he watched Wayne beg in vain. Barbara almost giggled at the look. In a way, it was kind of fun to see Bruce taken down a peg—

"Actually, Bruce, I think you're right on time." Mr. Murdock replied. "As it happens, Eddie's guess was incorrect."

Three jaws dropped, though Eddie's went the furthest by far. Barbara wondered if it was dislocated, by the sheer distance it fell. Something akin to a mortified squeak escaped the tinier boy's throat, staring at Mr. Murdock in disbelief. "W-what?" he asked.

"You were incorrect." Murdock repeated. "Your guess was wrong. Now, let's see what Wayne's team has to say."

He turned his attention to Bruce, who cleared his throat and folded his arms behind his back. He almost looked like a businessman in spite of his casual dress as he spoke in an authoritative voice.

"My team has come to the conclusion that the killer… was _you_, Officer Murdock."

The man in question raised a curious eyebrow, a far more subdued expression that the baffled faces on Barbara's team. Eddie was practically sputtering as he tried to cry out denials of such a possibility. "No way, he wasn't even one of the participants! He's just the judge!"

Bruce ignored him, and was steel-faced as he explained.

"The initial impression was, of course, that the killer was Mr. Strong, since he was in possession of the most likely murder weapon. But Mrs. Strong was even more likely a candidate, since she had a superior motive. _But_, our chat with Ms. Johnson revealed that Duke wasn't the only individual our victim was lunching with. He also met with you fairly regularly, Officer. And since we were alerted by the dear Duke that funds were already being kicked _somewhere_, well, you were the only candidate. Seems fairly cut and dry to me. A crooked cop, using a little arm twisting for a little extra stipend to his paycheck. But with the mob cracking down on your supplier, it was only a matter of time before he went turncoat. And the last thing the police need is a gangster with blackmail material. So you killed him, and framed a couple that could take the blame for you."

Silence hung in the room for a moment. Then, Murdock's gaze relented, and a smile curled on his lips.

"_Very_ good, Group Four. Very good, indeed! That is the correct answer!"

Barbara could very well see Bruce cheering with his team in celebration, but she couldn't hear them. She tuned them out, just as she tuned out the incoherent muttering of Eddie, stumbling into a seat as he struggled to understand what in the world just happened. She was angry, all right; partially for trusting Eddie, but mostly it was just anger that Bruce had managed to outthink them all.

But she couldn't bring herself to be surprised. That was what that crazy boy did. He beat the criminals up and, apparently, he was the one who found out who the criminals were in the first place. She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him high-fiving Eric, and laughing with Nora at something. She couldn't match his skill yet. But someday soon…

"So, I suppose I should get to telling you about that reward." Mr. Murdock announced, pulling out three coupons from his desk. He handed them to the team with a smile.

"In _addition_ to extra credit on your next quiz, this is good for as much ice cream you can eat down at the shop on Archer Avenue." He told them. "Since the winners of today's competition are dismissed as soon as they receive their prize, you can go ahead and redeem those as soon as you make the walk."

"Oh, that is complete—" Weylon began, finishing with a string of expletives he only muffled by burying his face in his hands. Barbara's judgment was silent, but far more severe as she shot daggers from her eyes at her would-be sleuth's shriveling countenance. Eddie shrugged, as if to say "How was I supposed to figure that out?!" while wincing away from her glare.

Bruce flapped his coupon in the air, grinning in excitement as he exchanged looks with his team. Eric was practically doing a victory dance, beatboxing some sort of tune to himself.

"Man, this is so wicked!" the kid yelled, punching the air. "Early dismissal, and ice cream! It's like, the rapture or something!"

Nora held a hand up to her mouth as she giggled. "Calm down, man; I think you're supposed to save the sugar high for _after_ the ice cream."

"Aw, let him have his fun." Bruce retorted, watching him with amusement. "It's like watching a dog running in its sleep; you don't interrupt that stuff, it's too funny."

The cheerleader sighed, in mock defeat. "But I thought ruining people's fun was what I did best?"

"It _is_," Bruce affirmed. "and you're a thoroughly awful person. Ozzy left himself wide open for that joke, and you know it. So, you want to get that ice cream now?"

Nora shook her head. "I think I'm going to wait for Victor; you two go enjoy yourselves…"

Barbara turned away. She didn't even know why she was listening to their conversation anyway. She buried her head in her arms, wondering if she should go get a book from the library to pass the time, when a hand tapped her on the shoulder. She looked up to see Bruce looming over her with a cocky smile.

"Care to see me off to my victory feast?"

"I'd care to jam my foot up your rear more." Barbara groaned. She stood regardless, and followed him and Eric out the door and to their lockers. Bruce refused to wipe off that infuriating grin from his face, and Gordon decided to do something about it as he fished his backpack off its hook.

"Any particular reason you dragged me out here?" she asked bitterly. "To gloat, or what?"

"I imagined you had some form of lecture for me." Bruce admitted. She resonated with Barbara. He wanted a speech? He'd get one. She jammed a finger into his chest as he turned to face her.

"You can start by backing off of that Tess girl. Even if she _wasn't_ a cheerleader, and the scum of the earth, she's seeing someone, you freaking flirt. Don't think I didn't see you chatting her up. Second, you can cut it out with that smug grin—some kind of world-class detective outsmarting a couple of high school kids is _not _that impressive. Oh, and if you so much as think about going on patrol before the circus tonight, I will break your _legs_, so…"

She trailed off mid-rant as her eyes focused on the coupon Bruce held in his hands, along with what was very definitely a _second_ coupon. Feeling a bead of sweat on her brow, she nervously glanced up at his face. The smug grin was most definitely not cut out, but his eyes were earnest.

"Is that…?" she half-asked.

"I thought if Nora wasn't going to be using hers, I could give it to somebody who could use it."

Barbara, now squarely settled into the conversational role of "jackass", meekly asked "Really?" as she felt her face blushing.

"Well, I was kind of having second thoughts in the middle of that long string of insults…" Bruce teased. "But yes. Really."

Wayne reached out and grabbed one of Barbara's hands, placing the palm face-up and setting one of the coupons down upon it. "Oh," he added. "and for the record: Nora was the one who figured out it was Murdock. Not me."

"Yo!" came a cry from the front door. Bruce and Barbara looked that way to see Eric waving at them impatiently, bag already packed and slung over his shoulder. "You lovebirds comin' or what! Freakin' _ice cream_!"

Bruce laughed for a moment before walking on, tugging Barbara's hand to pull her along. She stopped him for just a moment, making sure to grab her own bags—suit case included—before following him out of the school. Maybe this day was going to go a little better than she'd thought.

* * *

Several miles away, Gotham U's campus buzzed with activity. Students flitted from class to class, while others lounged around the quad and engaged in whatever struck their fancy. Not all were enjoying what bit of warmth could be enjoyed in a Gotham October, however—one in particular was cooped up in one of the many laboratories that the university boasted of. The greatest minds on this side of the Mississippi could tout this place as a true bastion of scientific learning.

One student in particular could attest to this. Only sixteen, and already studying with the brightest minds in his chosen field. He was a skinny child, with messy, dark hair and sunken brown eyes clad in a labcoat that hung loosely over his wiry frame. Blue jeans and a ratty t-shirt were all he cared to wear otherwise. Anything else was just a distraction from his masterpiece.

This student went by the name of Crane. Jonathan Crane, psychology major and certifiable genius. His spindly frame was set atop a ludicrously high stool, leaning over a table and studying a sample beneath a microscope.

From early childhood, Jonathan had taken a deep interest in the human mind. He wanted to learn why anyone did anything. Why did a good Samaritan help a stranger? Why did a police officer support the law, and why did a criminal choose to subvert it? Why did his parents leave?

Crane was an orphan, but he'd found his way into Gotham U by way of scholarships. His genius was too great to ignore, so they'd found a small cut of the budget to allow him his studies. And he'd paid them back tenfold. A hundred-fold, as far as he was concerned.

It had taken him the better part of a year, but he'd done it. He'd developed the ultimate psychological tool. Therapists had resorted, for decades, to methods as quasi-scientific as hypnosis and various "feel-good" methods to reach into a subject's mind, and discover their basest desires, their fears, and what motivated their traumas.

But no more. A brilliant chemist, as well as an expert of the human mind, Crane was at this very moment steps from finalizing his magnum opus: The Fear Toxin. He had found the exact chemical formula to agitate the part of the brain associated with fear, allowing a subject's mind to be overwhelmed by their greatest fears. This was a tool with limitless potential, he knew it. No longer would guessing games have a place in psychology. A true man of science could learn precisely what brought fear to a patient's heart, and thus would be able to help them overcome it.

There were… a few bugs, admittedly. At the moment, the formula's reaction was far too great, and if not properly restrained test subjects engaged in potentially self-destructive methods to escape their hallucinated fears. But he could work that out, he knew it. He just needed a bit more time, and it would be ready.

But time was something he was low on. The door to the lab opened, and in stepped a regal-looking, bearded old man. Jonathan heard him enter and hopped off his stool, ecstatic to see him. "Professor Bramowitz!" he exclaimed. "It's great that you're here, you wouldn't believe how much progress I've made today."

Bramowitz stepped up to Crane, coughing nervously into his fist; a gesture the student neglected to notice. "Jonathan," he stuttered. "I'm afraid there's been a—"

"I mean, where do I begin?!" Crane started, oblivious to his professor's words. "I've managed to duplicate the Toxin on a significant scale, in both liquid and gaseous forms. There's enough to test on hundreds of human subjects; thousands of mice, if we go that route. And all the biggest kinks have been worked out as well! No more deterioration, no more cell degeneration; just a few more batches and I think we'll have it!"

The professor looked at him with such sad eyes it seemed like tears were just behind them. Jonathan finally caught this, and was stopped in the tracks of his ranting. The wind out of his sails, he was only able to stammer, "P-professor? You look sad. Why do you look sad? We're so close—"

"Jonathan." Bramowitz interrupted, holding up a hand to stop him. "I've come with… terrible news."

"What is it?"

The professor looked down towards the floor, examining his shoes rather than daring to look him in the eye as he said, "With the hard economic times our nation has been enduring… they've cut our department's funding."

Crane's jaw dropped. He couldn't be saying..?

"We've had no choice but to cut your scholarships to keep ourselves afloat."

For a moment, all Jonathan could do was stand there, stuttering on words that refused to come out of his throat. He could feel sweat on his palms. After a ragged breath, he managed to say "B-but Professor! My work is so important, it could change our entire field of study! You can't just—"

"We can." Bramowitz said as coldly as he could, the expression on his face illustrating the pain it caused him to say it. "We can, and we did. Pack up your things, Jonathan. Unless you can find a new way to pay your tuition, we can no longer support your research."

Crane lunged forward, grabbing the shirt of his mentor, frantically crying "You know I'll never have that kind of money! You can't do this to me, I've poured my life into this!"

The professor averted his eyes, unable to bear the sight of the tears and mucous pouring down his pupil's shattered face. A long pause, only filled with the sound of his student's blubbering was capped with the barely audible whisper of "I'm sorry."

Professor Bramowitz turned and walked away, leaving Jonathan standing alone in the laboratory. Crane stumbled over to his table, throwing all his weight on it and letting his sobbing go unrestrained. This wasn't right, this wasn't fair. This was his entire life, and they'd just throw him out on the streets?!

"I-I never _asked_ to be poor!" he cried to nobody, hardly even understanding his own words in their garbled state. He collapsed to his knees, desperately trying to think of a way to come up with the money he needed. Thousands of dollars—_tens _of thousands. There was no way he could make that.

But, he looked up to the table. There, packed in dozens of vials and aerosol cans, was the Fear Toxin. All that he'd managed to create in his time at the University. As he stared at it, the first embers of an idea began to burn in his mind. He couldn't make the money. But if he could prove how effective his creation was, maybe they'd fund it? Yes.

He stood grabbing a vial off a little rack, twirling it between his fingers as he stared at the amber liquid within. Yes, that was it. A public experiment. To prove that the Toxin worked. But where?

Then it hit him. That night, if he recalled, there was a circus playing in Gotham. Haly's Circus. A cloud of hundreds, dozens of animals and humans alike to demonstrate on. Yes.

Yes, that was it. His sobs began to change, into a choked chuckle. Then, louder. Louder, still, until it was out and out laughter. He could do it! He could save his career! He'd show them!

He began to stuff the cans and the vials into his coat, cackling with glee as his grin split his face from ear to ear.

He'd show them all!


	7. Chapter 7

Detective John Blake shifted on the heels of his feet, scratching at the heavy, brown denim jacket he'd decided to wear. With a grimace, he silently slipped a sawbuck to his partner, Bullock; the hefty man gave a sneerish sort of grin at the younger man and chuckled. "Told ya it was Greathorn and not Wood."

John couldn't _believe_ he'd lost a bet on the layout of his hometown to the new blood. At least they'd found the place. He looked at the name hanging over the building: _Sandoval's. _Something about the name seemed odd to him; jakey, in a way. But he supposed that was just idle musing and pushed it aside. He waved Harvey after him as he stepped up to the door. Bullock stomped his half-smoked butt under his heel, crushing out the last burning embers as he whistled at the reconstructed entrance.

"Man," he marveled in that strange half-drawl. "I can't believe the place was a smoking crater a month ago. You Gotham folks clean up fast, don't ya?"

John frowned, lamenting his pick of partners, and adjusted the way his jacket hung over his shoulders. "People died here, Detective. Show a little respect."

"Hey, the dead're the dead." Harvey grumbled, fumbling in his pocket for a stick of gum. When tobacco was denied him, he went for minty freshness. He popped no less than three pink strips into his mouth, stuffing the pack back into his coat after offering his partner a few—an offer that was refused. "And for the record, I am showing respect. Respect to what's gotta be the most diligent construction workers on the East Coast."

A heat prickled behind John's ears, but a good officer was patient. Harvey hadn't done anything illegal—yet. Being an ass didn't warrant retribution, no matter how much he'd savor that moment. The ride around town had been a learning experience for the young Detective, that much was sure. Harvey had been no less than ecstatic to share the tales of his own work back in his town. Homicides, suicides, more drugs than you could shake a needle at—Bullock's own words. Blake had nearly choked when he said it. He simply didn't share the man's sense of humor.

The sight that met them was something to behold. The restaurant was every bit the shining beacon it had once been, before Scarface's men had gotten to it. Blake had never been directly affiliated with the case, but he'd been on hand to do cleanup work. Followed Gordon straight into Sandoval's when they'd came onto the scene. Dead civilians left and right, and a troop of made men, crumpled and broken in disgusting shambles of broken bones on the floor. That was the first time that Blake had ever actually seen him. The Batman, that is. Standing in the midst of it all, proud and powerful.

Even as a table sat where the mysterious protector of Gotham had once stood, John could still envision him there. It was so strange to think of him. In a city where the idea of good was just a fairy tale, they'd found it in the form of a monster. He supposed, thematically, it was appropriate. But monstrous though the man seemed, Blake had found himself entranced by the stories—the legends, perhaps. A single individual waging a war on crime, bringing terror to the worst men in the city just by the mention of his name.

So why had he disappeared? Criminals whispered dread rumors that the Bat had died, killed in a single cruel trick by Scarface. That didn't feel right, though. John was no child. But Batman wouldn't die that easily. He wasn't sure why he knew, or how, but he did. He was out there, waiting for something. Maybe it was for the city to prove itself. If Gotham was to have a hero, shouldn't it be worthy of one?

If that was the case, John would be worthy.

He could've gone on that tangent all day—he fell into it more often than he liked. But he was snapped out of it by a young, well-dressed man slipping past a table. His lip was clean-shaven, unlike the reports, but that mussy black hair and his pallor gave him away instantly: Remil Sionis, nephew of Roman Sionis and target for interrogation on the identity of "Wilson".

Before John could speak aloud, a jab to his ribs from his partner's elbow alerted him that, yes, Bullock had spotted him too. The both of them descended down the steps, their flashed badges deterring a hostess coming their way. Their target stopped at a table, leaning over to chat up a few guests. The customer's confusion at the approaching officers snapped him out of this, however, and he turned to face them with a hint of surprise.

"Um, hey!" he said, giving a short wave of his hand. His eyes held a note of surprise, and something deeper: fear. John wasn't surprised. Innocent or guilty, any relative of a crime lord's going to sweat when the cops come a-knocking. He kept up the charm surprisingly well, though. "Sorry, but I'm not setting tables today—I'm sure one of our hostesses would be happy to seat you though!"

Harvey rolled his neck, popping it several times as he smirked. "Don't try the casual act on us, kid. Why don't you step out back with us? We need to _talk_."

John's eyebrows raised up in shock, and he launched a jolting glare at Harvey. "Chrissakes, don't scare the poor kid!"

He turned back to Remil, who indeed seemed more than a little unnerved at this point, and pressed forward and down with both hands, in a gesture to try and tell him to calm down. He pulled his badge out and showed the young waiter. "Forgive my partner; my name's Detective John Blake, and this is Detective Harvey Bullock. We have a few questions we need to ask her, hopefully in a more private area."

Remil stood still for a moment, looking a bit like a deer caught in headlights as he slowly chewed his lip. But, after a moment, he nodded and gave a casual point back towards the kitchen. "There's an alley out back. I'm due for a smoke break anyway."

"A little young for smoking, aren't you?" Harvey asked, hypocritically chomping down on another cig as preparation for their foray outside. Remil just scoffed, almost bitterly at the notion.

"Hardly," he told them, pushing the door through to the kitchen. "even so, I don't smoke; but if I get an extra break for saying I do, well, the greater good and all."

The kitchen was nothing like the poised, ritzy environment just outside. A rabid, fast-moving hive of panicked cooks moving from dish to dish, shouting orders an ingredient names back and forth as they crafted their cuisine with a furious pace. Remil weaved his way through them all as if he knew precisely where they would be, even before they did. John managed to shuffle through well enough, but Harvey was something akin to a freight train, shoving men aside with nothing more than his unintentional girth and force. They reached a back door after a few turns through the hectic scene, and stepped out into a quiet alley. A few men in white kitchen uniforms were crouched in the alley beside a dumpster, smoke from their cigarettes rising into the air and hanging several feet above them, in a miasma of sloth. With a wave, Remil dismissed them back into the restaurant. They stepped into the dark alley, Remil leaning against the wall where the buildings fully choked off the path. Harvey stood next to the dumpster, lighting his cigarette at last. John stood close to Remil, watching him subtly shuffling away from Detective Bullock. Not inexcusable behavior, considering who he was retreating from.

"Okay, so you've got me alone." Remil told them, flashing a plastic smile. "What do you want?"

"Well for starters," Harvey grumbled, but John cut him off with a chop of his hand through the air.

"Ignore my partner for now." John said with a noted bite in his tone. "Let's start off simple, tell us about yourself."

Remil kicked his heel off the pavement, staring at the pebbles he scattered thoughtlessly as Blake tried to ignore the surly stare he was getting from his fellow detective.

"Don't know what to tell you." Remil admitted, shrugging his shoulders as he slumped a bit, his back to the wall propping him up as he went further and further toward the ground. "At least, I don't know what wouldn't be in your reports. I grew up in Dakota, came to Gotham a year back for my granddad's funeral. I wound up staying. I'm just a normal guy, more or less. I like to read, sunsets, the usual sort of thing."

Harvey leaned forward a bit, letting out a particularly hefty puff of smoke. The embers of his cigarette flared a bit, and Remil's eye twitched at the vivid sight in the dark alley; little sunlight joined them back here, and the red flickers were a sight to behold. The butt was caught between two chubby fingers, and shaken through the air to let the ash fall off.

"You're skirting the topic." The heavy-set detective noted. "There's an elephant in the living room and it's time we took notice; your uncle's one hell of a nasty man—"

Remil held up a hand to cut off the accusations. He didn't look the policemen in the eye, staring at the ground as he quietly admitted, "I know exactly the kind of man my uncle is. Heartless, sadistic… evil, maybe. But I'm not defined by my blood, or my face. I've worked hard to make myself a person independent of his shadow."

"Oh, right, clearly." Harvey chuckled. "So you've clearly cut off every last tie with the man, is that what you're having me believe?"

"What he's _trying_ to say is," John said, trying to butt in; but he was stopped when Harvey detached himself from the wall, striding over with a face beet red from the growing rage.

"No, _I _will say what I'm tryin' to say!" he bellowed, jamming a sausage of a finger into John's face. The detective did not flinch, but neither did Harvey, leaning in and letting out a torrent of spittle, hot air, and growing frustration. "What kinda hot-shot slum copper do you think gets to treat me like I'm not even on this damn case?!"

John's brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to protest, but Harvey's louder voice won out.

"Oh yeah, that's right! Betcha didn't think I actually _read_ the files on you backwaters, did ya?! I know all about you, Blake! You grew up with these crooks, down in the little crooks and cracks where civilization couldn't find ya! You _sympathize_ with these low-lifes, don't you?"

The finger became an open palm, shoving John's face into the wall as Harvey howled ever further. "STOP. DEFENDING HIM! We are here for information, not for a goddamned talk show! We don't _need_ his life story, we need information—"

John's imminent retaliation was stopped by a pair of surprisingly strong hands, one settled on Bullock and the other on Blake, pushing them apart with a single shove. Remil Sionis stood between them, glaring at them both.

"If this is the kind of work the Gotham Police do, then I think I'm starting to understand why men like my uncle rule this city!"

The harsh, scolding tone carried an emotional weight, even a sense of maturity and authority that neither John nor Harvey expected. Feeling shamed, they stepped away from each other. With a calmer tone, Remil looked to Harvey. "You don't need to be so hostile, Detective Bullock. Roman is my uncle, but I hold no love for the horrible things he's done to his city."

John saw an expression, almost imperceptible. But he recognized it all the same. There was a good man there, but he was scared, and Blake could guess why. Someone precious to him. Risking their involvement is something a man like that couldn't fathom. But still…

"In that case, we need you to help us, Remil." John told him. "Your uncle isn't the only out there causing havoc. We're trying to catch one now, but he's eluded us. We're hoping Roman might have learned something about him."

"His last name's Wilson." Harvey explained, slowly taking another drag from his cigarette to calm his nerves. "Targets lucrative, high-tech jobs. Think you might be close enough to your uncle to… ask a few questions on our behalf?"

Remil closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, seemingly to calm his own nerves. When he exhaled, something about him seemed different. He looked… try as he might, Blake couldn't describe the nature of the change. But it was in his eyes, he knew that much. Something had changed in his eyes.

"I think I can do better than that, officers." Remil told them with a smile. "My uncle is a very loose-tongued man, and he's let go of some _very _sensitive information in my presence."

His face darkened, and with a subtle hint of pleading to his features and his voice added, "But… Detectives, before I can part with this information, please…"

"Whoever it is," John assured him. "you have my word that we'll protect them with our lives."

A wave of relief struck Sionis, whose lips drew into a gracious smile. "Thank you, Detective Blake. That means very much to me. Now, this Wilson… I'm afraid I don't know his name either, but I know a bit about his past. He's a very checkered man; he's been all over the world, working primarily in Europe and Africa. He's built himself a reputation as a mercenary, a man who will commit any crime for the right amount of money. Roman doesn't know why he's going into organized crime now, and neither do I, but he's playing for keeps. He doesn't seem to keep any men past a single job, systematically 'removing' them after each successful heist. He does seem to be receiving very unusual shipments at the wharfs though; as best as I understood, it coming from overseas."

"Wharfs..." John repeated, stroking his chin. An image came to his mind, and his eyes lit up in a shining moment of clarity. Harvey looked at him, confused.

"What'samatter, you got something out of that?"

"He's been playing us, Bullock." John declared. "Playing us this whole time, like fools. He ran us ragged around the wharfs until there was nowhere left to search. We gave up, but, I get it now—_that's when he moved in!_ He's been down there at the docks the whole time!"

"Ya sure?" Harvey asked, a tinge of surprise and maybe a bit of hope in his voice.

"Definitely!" John confirmed, fishing his cell phone out of his pocket. He paused to turn Remil's way, shaking his hand vigorously.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Sionis—call if you need anything."

"Heh, I suppose I might." The well-dressed boy replied, flashing a friendly smile before turning back towards the restaurant. "Good luck bringing down this guy, both of you!"

He walked back inside, a raised hand his only departing gesture. John gave a silent wish of luck to the boy, and whatever someone he was trying to protect before dialing Commissioner Gordon. The phone only rang once before Jim picked up on the other line, letting off a rattled greeting.

"Commissioner?" John asked. "Commissioner, is everything all right? Did you find Detective Montoya?"

* * *

"…Yeah." Jim replied, letting out what had to be his third disoriented sigh of relief. He was sitting on the street corner, Detective Montoya sitting to his left and Victor on her left. "We found her exiting an apartment building; she had to check on her grandparents, but she's fine. What's better, she's picked up a hell of a tip: orphan buddies told her about a man called 'Cargo Wilson' recruiting thugs down in Crime Alley; an old theater that got condemned. We're heading there right now, so meet up with us there."

"B-but, sir, I—"

_Click_

* * *

Gordon had hung up on him. John understood the thought process; so glad to see his subordinate safe, he didn't dare question whatever he was told. So glad to be given a light at the end of this maddening tunnel, he'd sprint towards it without checking if it was an exit, or an oncoming train.

The call had been on speaker phone, for Harvey's benefit. He shared a look with the hefty detective, who by his expression shared his fears.

"Trap?"

"Trap."

The pair took off into the restaurant at a sprint, dashing through everything in their path in a mad race to the car. Gordon was closer to Crime Alley by a significant margin; they'd have to double-time it while they still had a chance.


	8. Chapter 8

Bruce and Barbara strolled side-by-side down the street, listening to the sounds of the city. This was not a pleasant experience, but it was something to pass the time as they made the long journey. Taking a bus, like Eric had, likely would have taken much less time, but Bruce suggested it was worth walking. The weather had warmed considerably, to a fairly pleasant 72 degrees; for Halloween in Gotham, this was all but unheard of, and Barbara couldn't deny the need to enjoy that heat.

Barbara took a few glances at Bruce as they walked, noting the slow shift in his expression. He'd been as cheery as he ever had when they left, but there was a charge in his eyes now, scanning the streets and every corner with energy like a cornered animal. Frantic little motions of his pupils darting this way and that.

"Bruce?" she asked, starting to feel worried. "You look nervous."

"Not nervous." He clarified, inching closer to her as they crossed another street. "Just on guard; we're close to Crime Alley."

The words stung Barbara with a dose of venom. She marveled at how negatively Bruce reacted, just going near the place. Every day, it seemed she understood what was going on in his head less and less. She put a hand—encased in a mitten, not trusting the deceivingly warm weather for a second—on Bruce's shoulder, getting his attention enough to look at her. She relaxed a bit as she saw the charge dull.

"Halloween's pretty quiet in Gotham. We're perfectly safe. Just… come on, let's go enjoy some ice cream, all right?"

His face faltered for a moment, but a weak smile crossed his lips as he nodded back, patting Barbara on the back as he upped his pace a bit. "All right; ice cream."

Call her crazy, but Barbara didn't feel convinced. There was still something off in his demeanor; broad shoulders, a puffed-out chest, standing straighter than any teenager really needed to. She mused on whether this was even a conscious reaction. Alfred had mentioned the kind of upbringing Bruce had received under him; traveling the world, better himself under the masters of the crafts he pursued. Maybe this was what he was naturally like?

She hoped not.

She drew up her jacket closer to her, scrunching up within it to preserve the warmth; a chill in the wind suggested their wonderfully mild weather wouldn't remain that way for long. They passed down three more blocks; the place was just a few more minutes away, when the sounds of a scuffle caught their attention. They looked to their left, at a small market across the street. The door was almost smashed down by a boy about their age rushing out.

He was short; not much taller than Barbara, but he was inordinately thin. He looked like one of those gymnasts that, she reckoned, would be found at the Olympics more often than some back-alley Gotham neighborhood. His skin was light, just a bit pale even in the sparse light. His face was smooth, thin and… the only word Barbara could use was youthful. His bright blue eyes sparked with life, and his downright devilish smile told that he was having the time of his life dashing mad out of that store. His black hair was uncombed and looked like a wild mess blustering about in the wind, going about halfway down his neck.

He was dressed simply, but surprisingly well, with a primarily red windbreaker that didn't seem half as ratty as it should in this part of town; his jeans weren't ripped, and his Converse shoes seemed… new. Newer than Barbara's, actually.

_I could stand Bruce having better stuff, but the street rats? That's just mean._

With long strides he scurried out of the shop, cackling in a scratchy, higher-pitched voice. Four young men came careening out of the shop after him, shouting profanities and waving whatever weapons they could get their hands on. A few shards of glass from a wine bottle, a pocket knife, and a wrench by the looks of it. As it happened, the boy ran straight past Barbara and Bruce, cutting between.

"'Scusemecomingthrough!" was all he managed to get out between his giggles as he ran into the alleyway behind them. They both turned to look at him turn a corner, completely forgetting about the four others chasing him; the group smashed into them like stampeding buffalo, knocking them in different directions. Barbara yelped as she fell flat on her back, head clonking against the concrete.

She shut her eyes on reflex, waiting for the terrible throbbing in her skull to die down. She could hear the voices waning as they went after their prey in the alley.

"…Barbara? Barbara, are you all right?"

Groaning, she opened her eyes to the very blurry image of Bruce kneeling over her, face on the edge of panic. She tittered at the stupidly terrified expression, which really only made it worse.

"The hell are you laughing at?!" he groaned, taking her hand as she held it up to lift her back onto her feet. "I thought you'd been hurt, you jerk."

She swayed on her feet a bit, but Barbara managed to regain her balance just enough to point and laugh at her friend. "I'm sorry! It's just—your face was so!.."

She trailed off mid-sentence as the latest pulse of pain smacked her upside the head. She hunched over, gripping her scalp and gritting her teeth. "Ah, god, I hit the ground harder than I thought."

She opened one eye and peered at Bruce, who wasn't looking at her anymore; his attention was directed down the alley, a fire burning in his eyes as he fished a Batarang from his back pocket. Barbara nearly blanched in shock.

"Bruce!" she hissed. "Put that away, you'd kill punks like that!"

"They could use a healthy dose of fear… and besides," he added as he narrowed his eyes. "I'm not exactly digging the idea of four on one."

"Right, that kid… we should probably help him, shouldn't we?"

"Yes." Bruce agreed, running down into the alley. "I should."

Barbara glared at the boy as he went around the corner, not oblivious to the subtle warning to stay put. She scoffed and ran after him. As if she'd ever do that. The alley was cramped, dark, and a little moister than she'd like, but it was simple to follow. Whoever had designed this section of town was a real sucker for wasted space; there was enough square footage to fit a few houses here. She ducked left, zagged right, and a given a cold reminder that she was most certainly not a runner in the leagues of Bruce as her fatigue slowly grew. Sweat was practically caking her skin with the warm state of dress she had chosen. She mused if maybe, just maybe, some terrible force was somehow amused by forcing her to make poor decision after poor decision in life.

But that was crazy.

She turned a corner to find that the next section of alley was no more than three or four feet long. Most of that space was occupied by a frame carefully looking around the corner, a hand jutting out in her direction. Barbara hit the hand so hard against her chest she could've sworn she'd impaled herself on it.

"GAH!" she yelped. "Bruce, you—"

The icy-eyed boy turned back her way and shushed her with a gesture, waving her to move up and look at what was happening with her. She did so, and saw that just around the corner the alleyway had ended. The boy leading the chase was backed against the wall, seemingly fairly confident standing against the taller, more muscular hoodlums that he'd aggravated. The blond boy with the buzzcut that seemed to lead them was saying something in a growling rage at him.

"…think you can smash our stuff and run?"

"If it was yours," the smaller boy wondered. "how much did you pay for it?"

The thug went silent. Barbara was no mind reader, but it wasn't hard to guess he didn't like that question. With a cutting motion, he signaled his friends to advance. They put their fists up and inched closer, leaving the shaggy-headed boy to shake his head at them.

"Man, _stupid._"

Of all moves, the boy turned around. That was shocking enough, but boring compared to what he did next. With a flurry of leg motion, he ascended no less than six feet up the wall, kicking himself off and doing a flip in the air to bring his foot straight into the face of the first man to reach him. He and his target hit the ground with a painful thud, the latter's nose being reduced to red gravy by the weight and force. The boy stepped back from the unconscious punk, dusting off his windbreaker with a proud grin.

"Why would I lead you into an alley, unless I wanted to put you in a place you couldn't escape?"

The boy moved towards the next brute, who swung with a wrench in a horizontal arc. The smaller, more nimble of the two ducked beneath it, grabbing the first unlucky boy's shard of glass and jamming it straight into a gap in the aggressor's elbow.

"WAAAAH!" he shrieked in baffled agony, tears cloud up his vision just long enough for the other boy to spring up, kicking him straight in the throat. He was unconscious before he even hit the ground.

"One at a time, even!" the boy gloated, that diabolic grin never once leaving his face as he clapped his hands at the carnage. "It's like you're lining up for a pouni—ACK."

His gloating was cut off when the blond boy wrapped his arms around him in a full nelson, pulling him up into the air. "Thanks for the tip." The boy hissed, watching with delight as his legs flailed uselessly.

Besides him, one thug was still standing, and came at the boy with a tire iron. Winding up for a nice blow, the weapon made a noise like a firecracker going off as it smacked the side of his head. Blood splattered out onto the wall right of them, then the left as a follow up strike rocked him.

"Bruce!" Barbara screamed.

"Going, going!"

"Like a freight train" was just about the only way to describe Bruce's charge into the alleyway. The gangbangers barely got a look at him before his left hand released the Batarang it had been holding; the black little shard of metal embedded itself in the tire iron boy's stomach. His hands went limp, dropping the weapon as he struggled to process the pain. That got harder when Bruce got close, using one hand to jam the projectile even further in. The choking sounds the dark-skinned boy had been making became out and out yowls of pain, only shut up by an efficient elbow strike to the right side of the head.

The boy was out like a light, and smacked against the ground like a flopping, lifeless fish.

Bruce advanced to the buzzcut boy, who dropped his unconscious target long enough to draw a pocket knife and go in swinging.

The blade was too fast to duck, though the Wayne boy didn't seem to care much. His left hand caught the balled fist of his opponent, the blade cutting into the edge of his palm as he did. That only seemed to focus him; his pupils shrank to miniscule dots as he slammed his free fist over and over against the baffled face of the blond boy. He took a step back, and Bruce advanced a step. He brought up his free hand to block, and that was cast aside with a single sweep of the arm. Bruce punched again, letting the skull fly back in an arc and rebound back. He caught him by the face with an open hand, gripping the squishy flesh tightly and slamming it straight back into the brick wall.

He felt the muscles go lax under him, and started to retract.

The moment he was free to do so, the stranger's right hand whipped away from Bruce's fist, and jammed the knife into his side. Blood pouring down his gray shirt, Brue snarled and stepped back as the buzzcut boy advanced. He threw down a heavy strike from above, that Bruce only managed to power through by luck, his arms clutched together in front of him to form a shield and take the blow. Wayne had more at his disposal than punches, though, and responded with a roundhouse kick to the boy's ribs. At least one broke from the force of impact, and he flinched long enough for Bruce to draw back and bring a front kick right into his lower jaw. His head went shooting straight up, his jaw pointing towards the sky as Bruce shifted his weight back. A downward axe kick shattered teeth and made gums bleed with more grace than brutality like that ever needed.

Once his foot was back on the ground, Bruce shifted stances to let his right foot lead and threw a left hook. Barbara wasn't sure what, if not human, but that word didn't describe her friend's opponent. The man still had enough stamina to pull back, letting Bruce's blow miss and slam against the brick wall. He charged, wrapping his arms around the young heir and crashing him headlong into the wall. Bruce shouted in pain, and reflexively threw a headbutt against the other boy. His astoundingly thick skull took it in stride, and on the rebound he responded with a bite straight into Bruce's shoulder muscle.

Barbara felt distraught watching, forced to look away as she heard Bruce scream. But even as she did, a voice in her head that she didn't recognize kept telling her to move—to fight. She was going to be Batgirl, right? _PROVE IT._

Though by what power she didn't know, she felt her legs move. She stepped out from behind her cover, and clenched her fists. She strode forward, ready to—

Ready to be cut off. By, of all people, the street rat. Gnashing his teeth and groaning, the boy hopped back to his feet, picking up the wrench his "pal" had been using and charging the leader of the little troupe he'd gotten so riled up. By now, he had Bruce pinned against the back corner of the alley, with his back turned and giving a prime target. Running forward and leaping into the air, the boy seemed like he was spinning in an arc as he slammed the wrench right into the blond one's spine.

A growl and a roar like a dying wolf echoed through the alley. Lost in the midst of the fight, the gangbanger was nearly frothing with rage as he turned around to swing at the troublemaker. He'd conveniently forgotten that Bruce was not yet out of the fight, and an elbow coming down right in the back of his neck gave him a sore reminder of that fact.

The three dove into a vicious melee, punching and kneeing and swinging like there was no tomorrow. Barbara could hardly believe the ferocity of it all. But the sound of pained movement caught her attention, and she sat the third goon to go down—with a Batarang in his abdomen—was standing back to his feet, brandishing that tire iron yet again as he looked the way of the other fighters.

Barbara felt her muscles tense—she was no fighter, yet, but when you're in a mansion for the better part of a month with the man who cared for Batman, you're given a few bits of advice.

_What would Alfred say to do?_

She rushed in, practically on auto-pilot as the wizened old voice of the Wayne's butler rang in her ears.

"_No matter how strong the opponent, the fact is they still have weak points. Find them, and capitalize on them."_

Good advice, as far as she could tell. The man she was charging was looking her way now, and surprised as he was she only had one free shot before he started reacting properly. That is to say, before he beat her fifty shades of black and blue. He looked top heavy. Maybe that was opposed to a lighter bottom? Weak knees, hopefully.

Anyone who'd ever had a gym class knew how to do a base slide from years of kickball. Barbara hoped that was the right idea to base all this off of.

She let herself fall, going into the slide and slipping down and just away from the swing of the tire iron. Almost on reflex, her right leg—as, facing left, it was on top—shot out and slammed shin-first into the boy's knee from between his legs.

To her shock and bewilderment, her guess had been right on the money. Like a domino nudged to fall, his knee slipped straight out of place and sent the rest of him crashing down like a bawling, infantile set of them. _Straight_ on top of her legs, pinning her beneath his entire weight. A curse or two in her head carried her through the inconvenience of dragging herself out from underneath of his body, finally getting free with a single drag, falling flat on her stomach against the cold cement beneath her.

She laid there a moment, face-down, feeling suddenly very sick as the adrenaline passed. She looked up and saw a sweaty palm stuck in front of her face, visibly shaking. It wasn't Bruce's, though; it belonged to the kid they' chased back here, giving a fairly timid smile to her. She grabbed it, and he pulled her up with a surprising amount of strength.

"Phew." He groaned, letting out a long sigh. Barbara looked over to the corner of the alley, to see Bruce hunched over and gripping his knee, with one hand balancing himself against the wall. At his feet was the thoroughly battered body of the blond boy. She was drawn back to the voice of the other boy, who had started talking again.

"Hey, uh, thanks for the help back there, both of you." She noticed he looked rather embarrassed by the whole incident, nervously chuckling to blow it off. "Hell of a fight, huh?"

"_Hell of a-?!_ You nearly died!" Bruce yelled from his corner, his voice going an octave higher than normal from the exhaustion. It sounded pretty funny, really, to hear him stressed like that. Barbara had to suppress a few giggles at his expense as he continued on his rant. "We both could have died, and for what? To pick a fight with some gangsters!"

"Hey, I didn't 'pick a fight'." The boy clarified with an earnest sort of look. "Those guys were there to steal some beer, or something. They had the weapons and had a bunch of booze in a cart. So, I kinda…"

"You kinda what?" Barbara asked in a scolding tone.

The boy gave a pitiful little laugh, and finished in a smaller voice: "I kinda smashed all the booze and smacked their leader upside the head."

Barbara snorted, embarrassedly clamping a palm over her mouth in response. After she calmed down she still couldn't help smiling at the absurdity of it. "Well, that took a lot of guts, I guess."

"It took a lot of _stupid_, going against Crime Alley kids." Bruce responded, stumbling over towards them. His hand grasped at the blade in his side loosely slipping around the handle and removing it with a tug. The boy's eyes bugged out like he'd seen a ghost, and his face went a little paler as he saw the wound.

"O-oh, man, jeez! I didn't know you got shanked! I'm so sorry, man, I didn't—"

Bruce held up a hand and stopped him. His face was calm enough, and he assured him "I've taken worse."

"He's taken worse." Barbara agreed.

The boy didn't seem consoled by this face, and new sweat was dripping down his face as he stared at the wound. Bruce finally worked his way over to in front of the boy, and grabbed his attention with a snap of his fingers. He looked up at Wayne's face, who was giving him a curious once-over.

"What's your name?"

"Oh, uh, my name's Dick." The boy responded, displaying a genial smile. "Dick Grayson."

"Well, you're one hell of a fighter, Dick. The name's Bruce Wayne." He offered a hand, and Dick accepted it. They shook, and Barbara leaned between them to wave.

"And I'm Barbara Gordon."

He shook her hand as well, and even as his eyes began to fog said, "It's a pleasure to meet you both."

With greetings out of the way, he promptly collapsed and fell face forward. Bruce and Barbara nearly shrieked in surprise as they leaned forward and scooped him up before he hit the ground.

"Give us a little warning next time?" Bruce asked, lifting the boy up to carry him bridal style. Dick looked woozy, and his head was bobbing back and force as he struggled to keep awake. The smile never faltered, though.

"Ah, heh… uh, sorry, dude. I don't… I don't think tire irons agree with me very much."

"Oh, great." Barbara groaned. "We found another funny one." She stepped over and tried to reach for his pocket, but he deftly smacked her hand away. She stared at him with a hint of annoyance. "Fine, if you won't let me check I'll just ask: you have a home, Dick?"

"Uh…" the boy seemed to pause, as if he needed to give it some serious thought. "Y-yeah. Mom and Dad're… at… Haly's."

Dick's head tilted to the side, rubbing against Bruce's chest as he fell into a deep sleep. Drool began to run down the latter boy's shirt, and Barbara pretended not to hear his disgusted groans as she thought about that name. Haly's?

Oh, crap.

Barbara spun on her heels, grabbing Bruce by the shoulders and pulling him in to look frantically into his eyes. "Bruce! He means Haly's _Circus!_ I think Dick's one of the Flying Graysons!"

Bruce's countenance was wracked with a thorough case of confusion. "The Flying who?"

Barbara's left eye scrunched up as she resisted the urge to slap her consistently, purposefully ignorant friend. "The family of acrobats. That work. At _Haly's_. This isn't just some kid!"

She gestured at the sleeping boy and exclaimed, "He's tonight's act!"

She kneeled down by the man she'd managed to topple, and yanked the Batarang out of his stomach, sticking it back in Bruce's pocket—not without complaints from the boy himself.

"Oh, eww! Thug blood!"

"It'll wash, you pansy." She replied, gesturing to follow as she started marching out of the alley. She grabbed her bags and Bruce's from where they'd been left out of sight, tossing them over her shoulders as she soldiered on.

"We've gotta get him back to the circus, before anybody worries where he's gone."

She waited for some kind of response, but none came. After a minute, she looked back to see Bruce diligently following her. All the same, he seemed to have a forlorn bearing. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Bruce sighed, and bowed his head. "I just… I really wanted that ice cream."

* * *

"**BRUCE!"**

The utter rage in Barbara's voice bellowing reached far out of the alleyway, echoing through most of this part of Gotham. On the corner just across from that alleyway, a man in dress too good for this part of the city stood. Black, vertically-striped dress pants, a white button-up shirt to match, and a simple red tie. The suspenders would seem out of place anywhere else, but matched that style 90 years out of touch that he seemed to be going for.

Remil Sionis heard the Gordon girl's voice coming from back there easily enough. He stared for just a moment, biting his lip as if contemplating. His right hand tensed around a simple, heavy briefcase he'd been carrying for some time now. A bitter chill wafted through the Gotham streets, spurring him to move on. With a final glance at the alley, Remil turned left and continued walking on his way, uninhibited.


	9. Chapter 9

In the depths of Crime Alley, the once-pristine buildings of Gotham City took on a mustier quality. The gleaming whites became sullen grays, and yellow stain seemed to hang in the air, tinting everything in a manner that could only be described as wrong.

Jim Gordon stood at the side of his car, rolling the butt of a cigar between his teeth as he contemplated this. He'd been here before, this street, many years ago. He still remembered what it looked like then, on a cold winter night. He'd seen the dread in the air, but he hadn't seen this. Not this hell.

Across the street from where he'd parked his cruiser was the old, abandoned Crown Theater. A purveyor of old, classic films no one else would play anymore. Right then, something he might call an old reel was playing in his head. An alley just to the left of the old place, flashing red-and-blue, illuminating a young boy kneeling over two bodies. Scattered pearls littered the ground. The look of despair, of uncertainty on that boy's face dominated his thoughts.

He sighed, heavily, and looked at his companions. Detective Sage was silently puffing a cigarette, waiting for his Commissioner to be ready to continue. Renee was staring at her feet, an expression not dissimilar to his own in her eyes. Gordon took a step forward from the car, burying his hands in his coat pockets as the wind chilled the air.

"This isn't a place I ever thought I'd be coming back to." He admitted.

"It's all connected." Victor responded, exhaling one last cloud of smoke before snuffing out the cigarette.

Gordon flattened his lips into a grimace, considering those words. "…So it is."

The officers drew their weapons, keeping them close at hand as they approached the building. Even now, a smooth voice could be heard drifting from within, although his words were hard to distinguish.

"Do you know how many we should be expecting, Montoya?" asked the Commissioner. After a moment's pause, she stopped to consider it.

"No idea." She said in a harsh whisper. "These theaters are small. Probably not many."

Gordon nodded and clicked the safety off of his weapon. "Let's go nab a crime boss."

Glancing nervously between Montoya and Gordon, Sage coughed to get their attention. "Uh, call me crazy, but shouldn't we wait for reinforcements?"

"If he figures us out, he could escape long before the others get here." Jim noted. "Now come on," he nodded towards the door. "move."

Gordon led the way, scurrying up to the door and kneeling beside it. Montoya took the other side and Victor filed in behind her. He peered through the door, to find the lobby decrepit and empty. Dust hung in the air like so many mines, clouding the trim brown carpeting and obscuring the far end, where the screening rooms were. He slowly pushed the door open, keeping his weapon at the ready; it seemed unnecessary, but he would take no chances with Wilson.

Montoya and Sage followed him in, sticking low to the ground. Ahead, they could hear a voice, low and smooth, making what seemed like a sermon. It had to be Wilson, Gordon was sure of it. Waving for the others to follow, he pursued the sound to the far side of the lobby.

"…My people! The _true_ people of Gotham City! The downtrodden, the cast aside, the unhealthy and the unwealthy! For too long has the fat, dribbling upper crust treated you as a collective stepladder to their own fortune! I come to you today with a proposition: join the coming revolution. A storm is descending on this city, and power is up for grabs. Money will no longer guarantee you _anything_. Power dictates power in the coming age, and we will only gain it through conviction!"

Gordon, crouching to present a smaller target, moved as quickly as he could towards the source of the sound. His knees popped and cracked with every motion, plaguing him in the bitter weather. He ground his teeth and ignored the discomfort until he reached a door: Theater 13. He drew himself up beside it, waiting for Victor and Montoya to line up behind him. The voice was definitely inside.

"…I look in your eyes, and I see the fires that will rise! The roaring flames that will consume this city in their righteous fervor. This is good!"

"We'll see how good it is in a second, you son of a bitch." Gordon murmured. He swiveled himself around, kicking in the door. The others followed, weapons drawn as he stormed the theater shouting at the top of his lungs.

"GOTHAM POLICE! EVERYBODY GET ON THE DAMNED GROUND, N—"

He stopped in his tracks, not five strides in. His mouth hung wide open as his arms dropped to his sides, gently slacking and releasing his sidearm. It fell to his side silently as he numbly scanned the room.

Empty. Completely empty.

Victor kept a tight grip on his pistol, checking under the seats as Montoya approached the back rows, all of them looking bewildered.

"That's not right…" Jim whispered. "This can't be… this is impossible."

And even through it all, the voice continued speaking, mocking him.

"With these fires, we shall spread our justice, and the city and its old ways will tremble beneath the might of change! REAL change! The kind of change that will… oh, I think that's enough. Are you there yet, Commissioner Gordon?"

A cold unlike anything he'd felt jammed into Gordon's spine as he heard his name. His head jerked around in every direction, looking for the source, before settling on the very front of the theater. He rushed down towards it, Vic joining him to find an old boombox sitting patently, wires running out its back and hooking up to speakers throughout the room.

"I don't believe it." Jim groaned, terrified to consider the possibility. Even now, Wilson was two steps ahead of him. But the voice kept talking.

"I think you'll have realized my little ruse by now, Jim. May I call you Jim? Well, _ahem_, Jim, the truth is I wish to congratulate you. You've been quite diligent in tracking me this last month, and you've come closer than I think you'd ever know. I think you've been my favorite toy in a very, _very_ long time. But… we must all say goodbye at some point."

"Goodbye?" Victor questioned. The prickling on the back of his neck told him all he needed to know, and he grimaced helplessly as the voice of Wilson continued on its tirade.

"Tonight is the end of my little game, and I'll be moving on to much bigger things. And although you've been quite the distraction to relieve my boredom, you're a bit too much to care for with bigger responsibilities coming onto my plate. So consider this a farewell, Jim. It's a shame you won't be able to see my plan in all its glory."

The tape shut itself off, finally finished, but Jim was still staring at the player in confusion. "I… I don't understand."

He started to stand up, but Victor shook his head violently. "Jim. Stay still."

A pause, as the notion of fear entered the Commissioner's mind. "…Why?"

"Think." Victor urged him. "How else could Wilson guarantee we'd find this spot?"

Gordon only had to think for a second before the barrel of a weapon was pressed against the back of his skull. Behind him, he could hear muted sobbing. He took a deep breath, and nearly choked as he asked, "Detective Montoya?"

There was no answer at first, but the weapon in her hands seemed to shake and jitter as she struggled to hold it against him. He heard a faint whisper. "I'm sorry, Gordon…"

"If you were," Victor noted. "you wouldn't be holding a gun to his head."

"Shut up!" she hissed, sounding nearly hysteric as she began to breathe faster and faster. "He twisted my arm, he has my grandparents! Tell me, Gordon, would you do anything less for your daughter?"

The question struck him dead in his heart. Cold sweat poured down his face, and he nearly gagged on the buildup of sheer nothingness in his throat. He choked out, "I… I wouldn't let him force me to compromise my morals."

But she knew as well as he did that that was a lie. _I'd burn this whole godforsaken city down for Barbara._

"FREEZE!"

The gun moved away from his head, and Gordon and Sage turned around to see Montoya facing off with Harvey and John, who had just stormed into the room. Bullock seemed unfazed, but John was very clearly distraught.

"Detective Montoya, put the weapon down!" he barked, shaking visibly. "Come on, it doesn't have to be like this!"

"_Yes, it does!_" she cried, her entire torso heaving with every breath as she grew more desperate. "He's got my family, how am I supposed to—"

She was cut off as Victor leaped from his kneeling position, tackling to the floor and wrestling the gun from her grip. Her cries of protest wrenched Gordon's gut, but he watched on as Sage managed to pin her completely. His own pistol was up to her temple. A good bluff, Jim thought. But for all his faults, Victor would never shoot a fellow officer. No matter the circumstances. That was why he was on this team.

He looked at Montoya. _Then again… that's why she was on this team._

"Detective Montoya!" Victor growled. "Renee! _Listen_ to yourself. Whose word are you going on? Wilson's? He's a crook. A liar. Kidnapping… not his style. Making you _think _he's kidnapping? Very definitely."

Slowly, very slowly, Montoya's frantic breathing slowed. Her forehead was buried into the ground, frustration written plain on her face. Gordon could see what was going on in her mind. She realized now. She was duped.

Even if she hadn't been, this wasn't worth it.

Cautiously, Detective Sage stood, and stepped back. Montoya didn't move, opting to remain still on the floor. He slowly approached Gordon and helped him up to his feet. Jim's eyes were fixed on the officer that had just betrayed them as he was led toward Detectives Bullock and Blake, who greeted him silently. Nothing needed to be said about their situation.

"Remil had information for us." John informed him.

"Wilson's been at the wharves this whole time." Bullock continued, the smoke of his cigarette adding to the clouds in the room. "If we leave now, we should be able to find the right one before the sun's gone down."

John gulped, reluctant to be the one to bring it up. "What should… we do about her?"

Gordon shook his head. "Leave her."

John seemed confused by the order. "But, she's broken the—"

"She's done right by her family." Gordon said to cut him off. "Tried to, anyway. Leave her."

Gordon led the way out, taking long strides to put as much distance between himself and this building as possible. _Maybe this place is as cursed as they say…_

The others exchanged a glance, before following him out. Only Victor stopped at the door, staring back for a moment at the woman sobbing on the floor. He sighed, unsure of what to make of it, before following the others back to the cruisers. This long night was just getting started. He could tell.

* * *

_Click_

The door shut quietly behind him as Remil Sionis stepped through the door, staring at the apartment he'd just entered. The carpet was plush and as pristinely white as the walls. He looked around quietly, and noted that it seemed he was the only one home. He stepped to his left in the little corner that served as a kitchen, setting his briefcase on the countertop as he moved to the fridge. The stainless steel door swung open smoothly, and he bent over to look at the stock inside.

Three out of four shelves were nothing but neatly arranged, metallic cans of beer. He ignored the ambrosia's call. It simply held no appeal to him. A hungry hand reached down into the crisper drawer, retrieving a bag of his real prize: double-stuffed Oreos. He afforded himself a weak smile at the thought of his treat, gently shutting refrigerator's door behind him. The baggie in hand, he grabbed his briefcase again and stepped back into the hall. The living room was a straight shot from the door, and was as sparse and pristine as the rest of the apartment. Utilitarian, he supposed it might be called. Very little was kept that didn't serve a purpose, whether it be a practical or sentimental one. Remil had always wondered why that was.

As it happened, he did live here. But it wasn't his apartment.

A couch, nearly the same color as the walls sat in the middle of the room, with its back to the door and faced towards the full-panel windows that existed in place of a wall. It wasn't the best of views, but he could see the sunset from here, and a portion of cityscape that was about as pretty as Gotham got. He sat down on the right side, crossing his leg and leaning back into the cushion. There was a television in the corner, but it was rarely used. He preferred to sit and watch the city from his little hideaway. He opened the bag and popped an Oreo into his mouth, quietly chewing as he thought of the day's events.

He frowned.

Some time passed like that, though Remil did not measure it. He was lost in his trance, only broken when the sound of footsteps in the hallway beyond the door caught his attention. He twisted himself around to look as the door opened, and his roommate stepped in.

They were dressed immaculately in a pinstripe black suit, with a matching tie and dress shoes. With their thin figure, one could easily mistake her for a man. Her face was pretty, he supposed, with a veneer of a cocky smile plastered on as the swagger of her normal step degenerated into an exhausted shambling, once she knew no strangers were watching. She used her forearm to wipe off her brow, and her large, reddish-brown eyes caught sight of the fridge with delight.

Her hair was blonde, and erratically styled, two long locks of hair framing the side of her face and dwarfing the rest of what could otherwise be a pixie cut. She casually set aside her own briefcase, throwing the door to the fridge open and gleefully grabbing a pair of beers from the top shelf. She used her foot to shut the door once more, traipsing out to the living room. That was when she noticed Remil on the sofa.

"Oh, hey kid. You're back early." She said in a brusque tone, perking up a bit as she sat down. He nodded at her once, slowly chewing on another Oreo. She offered him one of the beers, mostly an afterthought, but he shook his head. She shrugged and opened it herself, downing a few chugs before looking over at him again.

"You look a little more thoughtful than usual. Something up?"

Remil shook his head no. "Just a long day at work."

She frowned, disapproving of his demeanor with a glance. "You know, I don't have to be a mind reader to tell there's something on your mind. Spill it."

After a moment's silence, Remil bowed his head and allowed himself a little grin. "You're very good at that."

"I've got family like you." She responded, taking another sip of her drink as she threw an arm over the back of the couch. "You start to pick up on what they're thinking underneath the act."

"That so?" he asked, without really expecting an answer. Another pause, and he decided to open up. "I was visited today, at work. A pair of police officers."

She stopped him there, a hint of concern in her eyes. "Hold up, you in trouble? I'm not much of a private practice attorney, but if you need someone to take your case—"

Remil dismissed her with a wave and a chuckle. "Heh, no, nothing like that. They were asking what my uncle knew about a new crime boss in Gotham."

"Did he know anything?" she asked.

"Yes." Was all Remil replied with, leaning forward as he popped another Oreo into his mouth. His companion looked warily his way.

"Your uncle doesn't seem the type to share that kind of information."

More silence, as Sionis chose his answer carefully. "…He didn't."

She nodded, finishing off the last sip of beer and setting the empty can at her feet. She grabbed the second drink, popping the tab open and downing another gulp. "So, did you tell them how you really found out?"

Remil shook his head, looking rather ashamed. "Why would I? It would only cause more trouble. More than it would be worth."

"OK. So that happened." She said nodding astutely, seemingly proud of her blatant observation. "Call me crazy, but I don't see why that's got you down so bad. You helped a couple cops go after some nutjob."

Remil slowly breathed out through his nostrils, lost in thought for a moment. "It… wasn't just that, though. Walking back, I saw Barbara—the Commissioner's daughter, and a boy she was with. They chased after some people chasing some kid, and helped fight them off."

He shrugged, not sure what to say for himself. "They didn't even know the boy's name. They just stepped in, and put themselves at risk for his sake."

His conversational partner swirled her can around, listening to the sloshing liquid within. She focused on it, clearly processing a few thoughts in her own, increasingly-addled mind. "And you're… jealous?" she guessed. The idea stung Remil, but he supposed it was true.

"Sometimes, I just see the way these people dedicate themselves to helping others. They never expect anything in return, they just… do it. Sometimes I wonder if I'm wasting potential. If I should be out there doing the same thing."

His roommate stared at him for a minute, examining him, before looking back outside. The sky was tinted with a bit of yellow and orange now, as the sun began its downward journey. She gave an appreciative sigh, and smiled a bit.

"You know, Remil, you really amaze me sometimes. I don't think I've ever seen somebody with as little at stake on this planet as you, but you always feel like you need to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders."

He didn't respond, and in the silence she chugged down the rest of her beer. Setting the can down, she leaned back and set the back of her head into her hands, staring up at the ceiling for a moment.

"…I knew a kid a lot like you, before I started traveling. Always so uptight, and freaked out about his life. What he needed to do with himself."

Remil looked her way, curiosity creeping on his face. "What did he do?" he asked.

She grinned and said, "He found where he wanted to be in life; what the world, and the people he loved needed him for. Then he did that."

She stood, stretching her back and her arms out a bit as she did. "Ahh, wow… tired. Think I'm gonna go take a nap. I'll guess you're crashing on the couch again?"

Remil gave a sheepish sort of smile, and averted his eyes. "Same as always."

She glared at him in displeasure and shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know why you insist on breaking your back sleeping on this contraption. I'm pretty sure you're not some perv, ya know, you can share the bed if you'd like a good night's sleep for once."

The boy's grin grew wider, and he steadfastly refused. She threw her hands up in defeat, not one to pursue the matter. She smiled and reached over, tussling his hair with her hand.

"Y'know, you're a good guy, Remil… or whatever your real name is."

She turned around and made her way down a short hall to her bedroom door. She looked back long enough to add, "Don't forget that," before shutting the door behind her.

_Click_

Remil felt a wave of warmth wash over him, happy for the affirmation. He uncrossed his legs, hunching forward to watch the sunset. The thought still lingered in his mind, though. A simple, peaceful life was all he wanted…

But he could do more.


	10. Chapter 10

An orange sky was lazily splashed with splotches of gray clouds as Barbara and Bruce trudged their way down the last block. Bruce was in the rear, walking alongside Dick and using himself as a support for the weakened boy. Their staggered pace forced Barbara to slow herself down, though she kept in front of them and pinched her brow the whole way.

"Look, I'm sorry!" Dick groaned. "How was I supposed to know taxis won't carry bleeding people?"

"They _do_." Barbara corrected him. "Just not ones that look like they walked out of Fight Club!"

"Hey, you do _not_ talk about—"

Bruce cut off Dick's retort by casually waving his wallet in the air. "In his defense," the Wayne boy added. "I really didn't expect him to turn down $200."

"Oh for the love of god…" Barbara turned on her heel, stepping back to Bruce, snatching his wallet out of his hand and shoving it into her own back pocket. He apparently couldn't be trusted with it. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop parading that thing around? We're lucky nobody's tried to mug us without knowing you're loaded!"

The young miss Gordon was at her wits' end. They'd been walking for hours now; and as Dick had continually brought up, every attempt to catch a cab just wound up with the terrified guy fleeing when he got a good luck at the two stooges she was stuck with.

That may not have been the worst part, though. This Grayson kid was far closer to Bruce than she'd ever begun to fear was possible. They'd been trading quips, references, and boasts about their little brawl with the goons in the alley since the moment the acrobat was back on his feet. It was like being stuck between a rock and a hard place, only both of those had smart mouths on them.

"So, wait." Dick said, glancing over at Bruce. "I don't think I'm getting it; why's she so uptight with your cash? Are you wealthy or something?"

Bruce's mouth twisted into a confused frown as he examined the honest expression on the boy's face. "You're telling me the name Bruce Wayne didn't tip you off?"

He shrugged, demonstrating that no, it did not. "Should it?"

Barbara explained, "The Waynes are pretty much the family that built this city. They're _stupid_ rich, and Bruce is the only heir."

"Ah." Dick closed his eyes and nodded, jotting the information down in his mind. "Well, I guess that'd make you a name in Gotham but, as you've figured out, I'm more of a rail-rider myself. I've never been in a town long enough to learn the locals like that."

"By the way..." Bruce muttered. "You're _sure_ we're going the right way this time?"

Dick scrunched his face up, crunching the numbers in a situation that very definitely shouldn't need numbers to get involved. They'd wound up going miles in the wrong direction on their first attempt to find the circus. And the second.

After a moment, he pointed at a corner. "Yeah, it should be right around here. I'm, like 80% certain this time."

"It was 85 last time." Bruce groaned.

The groaning was unfounded. What they discovered the next street over was a stupendously large gap between the infrastructure of Gotham City. A giant, empty lot on any other day, but tonight it was the site of one of the greatest shows on Earth.

A massive tent, multiple stories high and striped red and yellow. Festive little flags stuck out from the high points, flapping in the cold Autumn wind. Warm light was drifting out from the interior, a welcome change from the ever-darkening streets of the city. Hardly believing their luck, the trio picked up their pace.

It was clear that the show wasn't ready to start quite yet. The parking lot in front of the tent was barren, save for several trucks unloading equipment, and trailers full of various handfuls of exotic wildlife to be incorporated into the act. Workers from the show were flitting back and forth, transporting everything they could move at a frantic pace. Everything had to be set up just perfectly. Dick, Bruce, and Barbara found their way into the middle of this crowd, weaving back and forth to avoid any painful collisions. If they'd had any doubts to Grayson's identity, they were alleviated by the friendly, mocking calls sent his way by the workers.

"Yo, Dick! Found some new hellions to roll with, eh?"

"Who'd ya piss off this time, Grayson!"

"Ah, wait'll Mary gets a load of you, kid!"

"Grounded for life, or eternity, ya think?"

_THUD_

Barbara had been so caught up watching the verbal assault, she'd barely been paying attention to where she'd been walking. His cost her when she strode straight into one of the workers, falling flat on her butt and nearly toppling him as well. She looked up at the man and spat out "Oh, jeez, sorry! Wasn't looking where I was going!"

As Bruce chuckled at her own klutziness, the man she'd bumped into looked at her oddly. He seemed like an average sort of guy. Brown eyes, brown hair neatly parted to the left, and a well-groomed tuft of a goatee. After a moment's hesitation, he reached down to grab her hand and helped her up.

"Uh… think nothing of it, ma'am." He said in a slow drawl, eyes lingering a little too long on her group. "Just be more careful next time; next time it might be a horse ya hit. Don't want them getting spooked."

He hefted a large duffel bag, full of some kind of equipment, and marched back towards the main tent. Barbara shrugged her shoulders, not feeling questioning enough to consider how weird the exchange had been until she caught Grayson's expression. Dick was still staring at the man as he walked away, something like a faint scowl forming.

"Dick, you all right?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "but that guy… I've never seen him before. Thought I knew all the workers here."

"The Ringmaster probably hired some local hands." Bruce chimed in. Dick nodded, satisfied with that answer, and pointed to the side of the tent. A long row of trailers was set up there.

"Come on, my parents should still be back there."

The trailer of The Flying Graysons wasn't particularly easy to miss. The side was painted sky blue, with an abstract representation of the family—a trio—posed in mid-swing upon the side. The door had three gold stars in a triangular pattern placed in the center. On them read the names John, Mary, and Dick. Barbara stepped up to the door, being the leader of this bleeding parade. Her knuckles rapped three times against the metal door, which triggered a commotion inside as somebody struggled to reach the door.

The sound of a lock being twisted moaned from within, and the door gently opened to reveal a woman dressed in spandex. The pattern was primarily red in the torso, with green limbs and just a touch of yellow trim. A garish thing, but Barbara supposed being easy to make out from a distance was the point.

The woman herself was just a bit taller than Barbara, looking down at her in confusion. She looked a lot like Dick, with his dark and messy hair obscuring her emerald eyes. A few lines from age were impressed on her face, but she looked remarkably well for a person that had to be at least forty.

"Hello." Said Mary Grayson, trying to recognize Barbara as some sort of circus worker. "Is there something I can…"

The woman stopped to take in a gasp of air as she recognized the battered boy behind her. "Oh my god, Dick!"

She rushed out from the trailer, shoving Barbara out of the way as she attended to her child. Bruce eased away to let Grayson stand on his own: a misjudged action, considering he almost instantly toppled into his mother's arms.

"Oh, my baby!" she nearly sobbed as she clutched him, only pushing him back as far as was needed to look at his face. She cupped a hand against his cheek, eyes fixated on the crusted blood around his lips. "What _happened_ to you?!"

"You know me, mom…" he joked, faintly laughing. "I'm a sucker for punishment. Hey, do you have any water? I'm really thirsty."

Dick's rambling was hardly acknowledged by his mother, who was already calling back into the trailer. "John! John, hurry, Dick's hurt!"

John, apparently the Grayson patriarch and Dick's father nearly stormed out of the trailer, sticking his head out in confusion. Barbara noted that while Dick had his mother's face and hair, he had his father's eyes. John Grayson had closely-shaved brown hair and a handlebar mustache, and his bright blue eyes were glimmering with something between terror and the kind of rage that could only be born out of parental instinct. He was dressed in a similar outfit to his wife, and hopped down the steps from the door in a single bound, patting the sides of his boy.

"Dick, is anything broken?" he asked in a deep tone that, in a way, sounded remarkably similar to the Grayson she already knew. "Does this hurt? What about this?"

Dick shook his head, repeating "No" in the same, slightly amused tone every time his father checked another bone. "C'mon, dad, you're embarrassing me."

That seemed to be the first time John noticed Bruce and Barbara were even present. He turned their way, a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue. He seemed to restrain himself, though, and only asked "What happened to my boy?"

"A fight." Bruce helpfully elaborated. "He wasn't doing so well, so we stepped in."

John eyed Wayne for a second, taking note of his extensive injuries—probably worse than his son's. He frowned, clearly not particularly happy to see all that blood, and stood up, picking his child up as he did so. He talked over Dick's particularly loud protests.

"OK, everybody inside. This isn't a discussion that we need to have in the open air."

* * *

Judging by the clock, about fifteen minutes had passed. Barbara sat inside the Grayson family's trailer on a somewhat ratty red sofa, comfortably snug with a steaming mug of cocoa in her hands. She took a sip, appreciating the warmth on a night that was steadily growing colder. To her left, Dick and Bruce were on the couch as well, wrapped in blankets and covered in bandages and gauze. The Gordon girl had been surprised, at first, at the extensive first aid capabilities and supplies of Dick's parents, but on further thought it made a lot of sense.

Acrobats worked a very dangerous profession, and any strange combination of injuries could occur on any given night. They had to have the means to treat those injuries, as well as the knowledge to do it. One never knew how long it would be before proper doctors got a look at them.

Across from the three of them, in a pair of folding chairs, were Dick's parents. John was rubbing his mustache, deep in thought, and Mary's arms were folded and her face looking downwards, trying to restrain herself. Barbara, with a little help, had just finished recounting the entire incident. Dick had added in how it all began, and Bruce had corrected her on a few things she'd missed in all the chaos.

Mary Grayson was the first to speak after the long silence. She sounded rather distraught. "Dick, it is _always_ the same with you. Every town we come to, you find some people you don't like, and you get yourself beaten within an inch of your life for it! You're lucky you made a couple of friends this time or… or, I don't even want to _think _about what might have happened to you then!"

She leaned forward, her palm supporting her forehead as she let out a heavy sigh. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do here. What do you think, John?"

He gave a heavy groan of his own, still scratching his facial hair. "What _can_ we do? I'm not even sure Dick did anything wrong."

"What are you talking about?!" she asked, bewildered as she turned to look at him. "He could be killed doing things like this—hell, he nearly was! We have to—"

"Have to what?" John asked, shutting her up with his stronger voice. "Have to tell him stopping a robbery is a bad thing? Mary, I don't want him hurt, but you're telling me to yell at my boy for fighting an injustice! How do you expect me to do that? I'm just proud the boy has _some_ kind of moral compass!"

Bruce and Barbara exchanged a glance, both feeling rather awkward viewing this marital impasse between a couple they barely knew. Mary seemed to pick up on the nervous air, and rubbed her temples for a moment.

"…All right. Dick, your father and I are both proud—"

"Very proud." John added.

"—that you did the right thing. But these people you've been fighting, they're not just kids like you. They have weapons, a-and experience doing these kind of awful things! You got lucky that these wonderful people were here to help you," she stopped to gesture at the visitors, who nodded and smiled graciously. "but next time they won't be there. You're just not strong enough to do this kind of thing by yourself, that much was proven today."

"To be fair, it sounds like he's getting better."

"Not helping, John."

"Right, shutting up."

"So _please_," Mary pleaded, reaching forward and grabbing her boy's hand. "please just promise your mother you won't keep scaring her like this."

The woman had a look so earnestly fearful that even Barbara felt a few tugs at her heartstrings. She couldn't imagine that Dick wasn't affected by it. Sure enough, he grinned and let loose a defeated sigh. "All right." He agreed. "It's just hard, you know? You see jerks like that, you just kind of want to pound their faces in."

Mary gave a rather unhappy frown at his aside, but his father actually laughed at it. "Oh, I know the feeling, bucko. But now that we've got that taken care of, we have to talk business. Tonight's show."

"Right, the act." Dick said, brightening up as he thought of his upcoming performance. Barbara could have sworn she saw him grow at least three years younger right on the spot, some precocious kid sitting between her and Bruce as he asked, "What routine are we going with tonight?"

John and Mary shared a sullen exchange of looks, and with a nod agreed. John leaned forward, rubbing the back of his head and averting his eyes as he said "Well… there is no 'we' tonight, sport."

Dick's childlike demeanor shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. "What?" he asked, flabbergasted. After a moment's thought, he seemed to grow angry. "Are you punishing me or something?!"

"No, no, god no!" John exclaimed, waving his hands in rejection of the thought. "You know I'd never keep you off the trapeze if I didn't have to, Dick; your mother wouldn't, either. We're just worried. We don't know what kind of injuries you've got, beyond the flesh wound. You could have a concussion, for all we know, and we just don't think it's safe for you to be up there with us tonight."

"I feel fine!" Dick insisted. "Just let me go out there and I'll prove it!"

"We just can't risk it." Mary told him. "I don't know what we'd do if anything ever happened to you."

"It's just until we get to the next town; Gotham's hospitals are insanely priced."

Barbara mused on that for a moment. Her father had mentioned, once, how the Falcones had dipped their fingers into the local medical staff. Higher prices to kick the mob's way. She'd always considered certain public services to be incorruptible as a child. As she learned with age, nothing was incorruptible.

"We'll get you checked up on the next stop, and the stop after that you can rejoin the act."

Bruce's brow furrowed, and he silently gestured for Barbara to hand him something. _Huh. I guess that's right._

She corrected herself as she pulled his wallet from her pockets, and handed it to him. Nothing was incorruptible, except for Bruce Wayne.

"I don't think there'll be a need for that." Bruce told them, opening up his wallet to reveal a number of credit cards that was higher than the number of bills most folk carried. "I can pay for any of Dick's medical bills."

The Grayson's faces dropped so far that Barbara genuinely feared that they might fall right off their faces. John whispered, as if mouthing his thoughts on reflex, "You're _that_ Bruce Wayne?"

Mary stammered for a moment, seemingly unwilling to believe the words she was hearing, before bowing her head towards him. "I… I… oh, yes, please! Thank you so much, Mr. Wayne!"

She sounded nearly hysteric, and Bruce retracted with a rather shocked expression. "P-please, ma'am, it's just Bruce! And please, don't think anything of it! I can't think of a better use for it."

John paused, hesitating as he weighed the options. "Are you sure about this, Bruce?" the man asked. "It could end up being a lot."

"What else would I spend it on?" Bruce asked, cheerfully placing one of the cards in John's hands—more symbolic than anything. "You're talking to the man who has everything. The only thing I can keep paying for to make me happy, is other people's happiness."

Mr. Grayson chuckled a bit at the cheesy line, but Barbara caught the shine in his eye—a tear he barely kept back. He smiled broadly and admitted, "I'm glad Dick managed to meet people like you, Bruce; and you too, Barbara. I've always prayed our little Robin would turn out like you."

Barbara snorted as Dick's face turned a shade of red even deeper than his parent's spandex, groaning as he buried himself between his knees as he drew them close to his face. "Dad…"

Unable to hold back her curiosity, Barbara asked, "_Robin_?"

Dick's ears were already tinged pink as Mary giggled and explained, "Oh, when he was just a little baby—couldn't have been older than five—we let him dress up with us and do some simple tricks with us. Needed to teach him the family business, you know. And when we got the suit on him, he looked at it and said that looked 'like that red bird.'"

"I told him he meant a robin," the patriarch of the Graysons continued. It was apparently a well-rehearsed story. "and he said 'Yeah! Robin!' So from then on, he'd always be our Little Robin!"

Dick leaned back long enough to slam his forehead into his knees and moaned, "You said you'd stop calling me that when I turned sixteen!"

His father laughed at his son's distress, finding the torment he gave his kid highly amusing as it seemed. "Ah, lighten up, Dick! I'm bound to slip up every now and again—only human, right?"

He glanced up at the clock, and nudged his wife. She checked it as well and nodded back at them. They stood up, clasping hands with the injured boys and helping them up. All five of them began to walk out of the trailer. The sun was almost fully set now, and the darkness was only broken by the bright lights of Haly's Circus. The signs had been erected, the show was ready to begin; cars were beginning to filter into the lot, and the dull roar of distant voices was wafting over, by way of the cold breeze.

"We have to get ready for the show now," John explained, gesturing towards the circus. "so we'll talk more later. Bruce, Barbara, did you have tickets to tonight's show?"

They nodded, which got a beaming smile from the Grayson couple. "Wonderful! In that case—"

John cut himself off, suddenly noticing a possibility he'd neglected. "I suppose I should ask first. Was this supposed to be a… private evening?"

Barbara's face was the one to flush red now, her expression faltering for a moment as her heartbeat took off like a rocket. She opened her mouth to try and explain.

"Oh, not at all!" said _Bruce._ "We're just here as friends."

The Wayne boy was oblivious to the glare with all the force of the devil himself coming from the girl to his right.

_You didn't have to brush it off THAT quickly!_

No one else seemed to pick up on the venomous stare either, as John continued unimpeded. "Well, in this case, would you mind keeping an eye on Dick for us, make sure he doesn't get in any more trouble?"

"That'd be no trouble at all." Bruce responded. John and Mary quickly stepped away, heading for the rear of the tent. Not a moment later, the pair of Gotham natives lurched forward as the weight of a sixteen-year-old boy slammed into them. Now squarely between them, Dick threw his arms around both of their shoulders and beamed.

"Guess we're circus buddies!"

He glanced over at the red headed girl and curbed his happy grin for a second. "Hey Barbara, you don't have a fever or something, do ya? Your face is kind of red."


	11. Chapter 11

"What's it like living in a circus?"

"Hm?"

Dick turned and looked at Barbara, shrugging nonchalantly. They, plus Bruce, were currently swamped in the mires of a thousand Gothamites all seeking their seats in a mad fervor. They had only barely made it through the ticket booth and line moments beforehand. Luckily, it seemed whoever that bearded woman was behind the glass knew Dick well; a nod was exchanged between them. That was all they needed. It seemed he'd been injured often enough that he sat out of shows often. Barbara, amused, wondered to herself how many times were due to troublemaking, and how many due to his own slip-ups.

Dick took his time to let the question marinate in his head, ducking between a fat man with a clutch of hot dogs in his hands and some woman with hair taller than the acrobat's torso as he did. This really seemed like a stumper to him. "I dunno," he said, unhelpfully. "it's… life?"

Barbara twisted her eyebrow into a judgmental arch, and he cringed away from it a bit. "Look, you're asking me to compare my lifestyle to one I've never even known; I don't have much to work with here. I mean, I guess it's pretty normal. As normal as living in a circus can be. We're pretty much caught up with modern times. I've got TV, a laptop, I've got internet, it's not like I'm some shut-in or something."

They reached the inside of the tent, and for the first time Barbara was fully able to appreciate its astounding size. All around the perimeter, dozens of rows of seats stacked up high accommodated the vast crowds streaming in from all across town. The grandstands formed an oval around the ring, where a dirt area had been pounded out and set up. The trapeze was set, and she could see an array of catwalks and platforms up near the high ceilings, for workers to move about unseen. She didn't claim to know much about architecture—though a trip to the library would be changing that soon—but it seemed odd that they managed to be able to suspend all that from a tent. Maybe there was a wire frame hidden in the fabric?

"So why did you want to know?"

Oh right, Dick.

"Um…" she pressed a finger against her bottom lip, choosing an answer. "I guess it's just interesting, you know? Never staying in one place for more than a week, it seems like something different. Exciting."

Grayson smirked, chuckling at her childlike view of the whole experience. They began filing up and around the staircases, looking for the easiest way to get to their row of seats. Barbara glanced back at Bruce, who barely seemed to notice her. His eyes were jittering like little flies as they twitched back and forth, scanning the upper reaches of the place. He was probably identifying all the hiding spots he could use, all the best escape routes. Crazy, hero-OCD stuff. Barbara resisted the urge to smack herself or, better yet, smack Bruce. Was this his natural response every time he went to a new place?

"Well," Dick continued unabated. "the excitement wears off after a while, trust me. I mean like I said, I don't know what it's like to live _outside_ a circus. This is normal to me."

"But, what do you do for school?"

"Eh, homeschooled, pretty much." Dick explained. "My parents are pretty smart; most of the performers chip in, too. Plus, you know, internet."

"Internet." She parroted back in understanding.

They finally reached their row on the far side of the colossal tent, slipping into the front row and getting down a trio of chairs before anyone could get in their way. Barbara wound up in the middle, setting her suit case down between her feet, leaning back into her chair and enjoying the chance to get off her feet. Dick seemed to relish the same opportunity, but Bruce hadn't changed a bit. She sighed and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Bruce, this was supposed to be fun. Could you just try to relax, for one night?"

His icy eyes glanced over her way and, although he didn't look entirely pleased, he took a deep breath and sank into his chair a bit. That was what Barbara wanted to see.

"All right, I'll try." He said in a teasing voice. "But I'm not sure I really know how to do this 'relax' thing you keep talking about."

She suppressed a fit of giggles and patted his arm, leaning back into her seat. "Just follow my lead; you'll get the hang of it."

Barbara turned back to her left, continuing to chat with Dick. But Bruce didn't bother to listen in. His eyes were fixated on the rafters and walkways in the highest reaches of the tent, and on the shadow he saw moving about them. His vision narrowed, certain Barbara wasn't paying him any mind at the moment.

_Prep is done, and the show hasn't started. Nobody should be up there yet. Who IS that?_

* * *

In the darkest, highest corners of Haly's Circus, Floyd Lawton was preparing himself for a grisly task. It had been simple to sneak in; simpler than he'd even dared to hope. The suits the workers wore were nothing special, not even a patch to distinguish themselves. He bought some overalls and an undershirt from the store and he fit right in. It had taken two trips, but he'd managed to smuggle two duffel bags of equipment up to the walkways. Both were set before him, where he was kneeling. He opened the first, his proper clothing.

No one could see him up here; he had the fortune to discover that these places were abandoned during the show proper. He couldn't have asked for a better perch to snipe from. First came the bodysuit, a lightly armored, highly-flexible little number he'd managed to… "acquire" from a "reputable" dealer. A gray-blue color, with yellow trim down the arms and a few similar lines across the cowl he pulled over his head. His right eye was covered in a heavily modified scope, hooked up directly to the real marvels of the bodysuit: two wrist-mounted cannons. The firing rate and the weight of a handgun, with all the stopping power of an elephant gun. In the hands of a shot like him, it was like holding Death itself in his grip.

He put on a brown jacket over this, more heavily padded and capable of shielding him from return fire. The real treat, though, was its payload. More ammo than he could ever hope to use was strapped to it; he was practically a one-man arsenal. Two pistols strapped to the inside just upped the ante further. He couldn't truthfully recall the last time he'd needed backup weapons. But this was Gotham. It had been his haunt, once. But it had been months since he killed within the city limits, and he had a new obstacle to consider: this "Batman" the underbelly was whispering about in hushed tones. He'd heard every story imaginable. Some punk in a mask, or maybe a bat-devil from Hell itself, here to devour the soul of every ne'er-do-well. He'd suggested, jokingly, that maybe he was a vampire.

It unsettled him just how seriously his fellows had taken the suggestion. Missing or not, there was always the threat of a Bat crashing his little party, and he intended to be prepared. _Imagine the looks on their faces at the bar, if I come back with the Bat's head after our first run-in. That'd shut 'em up._

The second duffel bag held his extra equipment: a large belt chock-full of various toys in their pouches. He slung it over his shoulder, patting each bag to ensure its cargo was still there. Grenades, check. Smoke grenades, check. Fake blood capsules, check—and always useful in faking a death for an escape.

After a moment he determined that, yes, he was ready. He zipped the bags up and stuffed them in a corner out of sight, crouching as he slowly eased his way out towards the center of the tent. The buzzing was starting to annoy him, though.

Floyd huffed and attempted to ignore the heaters. There were at least a dozen up here, maybe more, all churning vaguely warm air out to the people below. It was barely enough to be noticed, but those who did appreciated it on this cold Gotham night. When he reached the center, he could see someone below him. A dumpy little man in an oversized hat and a red coat, gesturing with an air of regality to the people below.

_Hurry up and bring out the Graysons. I have a check to collect._

* * *

Barbara and Dick broke off their small talk as the Ringmaster at last stepped out to the center, spotlights centering on him as he prepared to speak. He was a tubby, roly-poly of a man, with an infectiously kind smile and curly brown hair stuck out from his stovepipe hat.

Dick grinned watching the little man work. "That's Ringmaster Haly." He explained. "Great guy, better speaker."

A hush fell over the arena as he held his arms out to silence them. Then, with a single finger raised, his booming voice roared over the arena.

"LLLLLLLLLADIES AND GENTLEMEN! I BID YOU… WELCOME! TO THE GREATEST! SHOW! ON! **EARTH!**"

The crowd hollered in response, their hyped-up voices screaming in a unison that drowned out every thought for miles around. The din hushed again as Haly gestured for silence.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN MAY I ASK YOU, ARE YOU READY! FOR! ACTION?!"

The bellows and whistles told him yes, they were.

"ARE YOU READY FOR DEATH DEFYING STUNTS?!"

The mad cheers and shouts told him yes, they were.

"ARE YOU READY FOR EXOTIC CREATURES GATHERED FROM EVERY! CORNER! OF THE GLOBE?!"

The hoots, the stomps and the claps told him yes, they were.

"BUT MOST OF ALL! MOST OF ALL, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN ARE YOU READY FOR A GOOD TIME?!"

Their voices broke out in a booming, earth-trembling chorus that told him yes, they absolutely were. The Ringmaster laughed a booming, chortling laugh that matched his jovial appearance.

"IN THAT CASE LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I'LL BE YOUR GUIDE TONIGHT! I AM CORNELIUS! CORNWALLIS! HALY, AND I HAVE GATHERED ALL OF THESE THINGS AND MORE FROM ALL ACROSS THE EARTH FOR YOU! YES, YOU, GOTHAM! NOW, ALLOW ME TO SHOW THEM TO YOU! PLEEEEASE HELP ME IN WELCOMING OUR FIRST WONDERFUL PERFORMER! SAY HELLO TO OUR BEASTMASTER, THE FEARLESS! RAYMOND APOLLO!"

The spotlights dispersed, and C.C. Haly whipped a cane from his sleeve, departing the arena as the lights re-converged on a man emerging from a tunnel just beneath where those in the front row were sitting, waving madly to the audience as dozens of assistants brought out horses, ostriches, lions and more. Barbara was entranced by it all, before a shoulder bumped into her side.

She looked at Dick, who was staring to her right with a confused expression.

"Hey, Barb… is Bruce always like this?"

She checked to see what he was meant, and was smacked in the face with something between anger and pity. He was staring up at the walkways, face stoic. She saw the glimmer in his eyes. This was his work face.

"He's… yeah, he's like this a lot."

Barbara waved a hand in front of Bruce's eyes, and caught his attention long enough to lock gazes with him. They couldn't talk out loud, not with Dick listening in. But the look on Barbara's face spoke for her.

_Bruce. Please. Patrol can wait._

Bruce turned away, his expression cold.

_No, it can't._

"I have to go to the bathroom." He announced. He stood and took a step away before turning back. "You guys want anything while I'm up?"

"Grab me some popcorn!" Dick chimed in. Barbara just shook her head. "I'm good, _thanks_."

Wayne's face faltered for a moment. Did he look… regretful? Gordon couldn't put a word to it before he turned away again, rather frantically making his way past the others seats, jogging out towards the exit of the tent. Barbara leaned forward resting her arms on her legs and sighing.

"Uh… I don't mean to cut in where I'm not wanted, but, is everything ok?"

"Huh… yeah, I guess." She moaned to Dick. "Bruce is just, uh, really stubborn sometimes."

"Well… I'm sure he has a good reason for it."

"Maybe." She sulked. "It's just so frustrating, he shuts himself off from everyone else. It's like he thinks he's the only one who can do anything about anything."

Dick rubbed his chin, thinking on that. "Well, I think all you can do for now is try to enjoy yourself, and hope he joins in."

Barbara trained her eyes on the performers, guiding the animals around in elaborate routines. "I guess so…"

* * *

It was dark now. Dark, cold, and wet. The wharves always had a mist ready to soak a man to the bone, and Gordon was feeling the chills tonight. He looked at his men, and saw they were feeling the same. John was standing beside his cruiser, shivering and standing close to Bullock, who had sparked up his lighter in and attempt to warm his face up a bit. Victor seemed the least affected, but his scowl was even more recessed and lined than it usually was. They were all feeling the pain that Wilson was putting them through in his mad chase. But this was it. No more running; they'd found him.

There were a number of warehouses by the sea's edge, and his team had searched them all in the hours since leaving Montoya in Crime Alley. All but one. Jim rubbed his hands around his pockets, hoping for a little warmth from the friction. His face was numb, be it from superstitious shock or from the cold as he read the white number painted on the door. Unlucky number 13. Wilson had a sense of humor, then.

He begrudgingly removed one hand from the warmth of his pockets, and signaled Bullock and Sage to move up. They went for the large, steel sliding door, readying themselves to pry it open. As Jim prepared to follow, John stopped him by grabbing the sleeve of his coat.

"Sir, a moment?"

"Granted, Detective."

"You're worried, sir. Scared. It's in your eyes, hanging on every motion you make. The others are noticing it, too."

It was the best way Blake could communicate it. Presenting Gordon's fear as a detriment to the force, and providing a need to get it off of his chest. Jim was caught a bit off-guard, but not unhappily so. John had known he'd never say it if he'd just asked as a friend. Gordon took a long, heavy breath through his nostrils, letting it out with the same force. He took out another cigar, rolling it once between his teeth before spitting it out to the ground.

"We're a goddamned mess out here, Detective." Jim grumbled, massaging his brow with a jittering hand. "Two months I've been in charge of this department, and I've got nothing to show for it. Rampant crime, new organizations moving in by the month, a dwindling arrest record. Hell, I had four loyal officers in the entire GPD, and one of 'em just went turncoat on me!"

He leaned against his cruiser, shifting the frame with nearly his whole weight slumped against it. "I'm so _tired_, Detective. I just want to see my family, but every day I'm out here wondering if I stop doing my job for just a second—just one second—who's gonna pick up the slack? It feels like I'm a wall—an effigy Gotham threw up like some kinda scarecrow to chase off the pests. But they're not gone, Detective! They're right out of sight, just waiting for _one second_ where I'm not standing there. And then they swoop in, and just…"

He couldn't say any more, and bowed his head, shaking it as his chin rubbed against his chest. John stared at his CO, debating whether to speak his mind. He decided that yes, he needed to.

"You miss him, don't you sir?"

Jim stared lazily at him. "Batman?"

Blake nodded. Jim rubbed a temple in frustration, pushing himself away from the car.

"Batman was a vigilante, breaking the same laws the criminals he fought did. Every moment he stalked the streets was a mockery to my department…"

Jim straightened his posture. "But he got results. He brought in more men nightly than the entire GPD. Took down crime lords, smuggling rings, drug dealers, there weren't any politics with him. A crook was a crook, whatever kind of mask he wore. He _scared _them. Nothing we can ever do will scare these monsters, but the Bat did it."

John watched the Commissioner shift his face, looking back at him. His tired, aging face was crinkled with borderline despair.

"_He needs to come back, John._"

John resisted the urge to cry, clamping a hand down on Jim's shoulder and throwing the other arm around him. An unorthodox interaction between an officer and his superior. But the GPD was an unorthodox group.

"And I believe that he will, sir. But until he does, we have to pick up the slack."

He stepped away from Jim, nodding at the older man and smiling. "Let's end this chase, Commissioner."

Gordon flexed his facial muscles, determined to remain stoic as he nodded back. They turned back to the warehouse when the voice of a frantic Harvey called back to them. "Commish, get up here! Ya need to see this!"

* * *

"WHOO!"

Dick hollered in excitement as he watched the clowns duck and dive around the bull, escaping by the skin of their teeth every time the beast came charging for them. Barbara joined in, losing herself in the excitement of the night. The acts had been as astounding as Haly had promised them, from strongmen pulling buses to hard-bitten lion tamers, each act managed to trounce the last in sheer stupefying wonderment.

She wasn't sure how long this went on; the time slipped away from her, until at last it was time for the grand finale. Haly took to the center of the ring once more, being met by the raucous cheers of his audience, his thralls that were but putty in his hands.

"LLLLLADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I PROMISED YOU THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH! HAVE! I! DELIVERED?!"

A louder commotion than any told him yes, he had.

"THEN IN THAT CASE LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THIS VERY HAPPY RINGMASTER HAS GOOD NEWS! THE FUN IS NOT OVER JUST YET! I HAVE ONE MORE ASTOUNDING ACT TO GIVE YOU, BEFORE WE BID YOU ADIEU! YOU SEE THIS TRAPEZE BEHIND ME, TO MY SIDES, ALL AROUND! HAVE YOU YET NOTICED THE DEVILISH HANDSOME MAN ABOVE ME, AND TO MY LEFT?!"

A spotlight shone on the platform high above the earth, where John Grayson stood and bowed; it was as if he hadn't even been there until that moment, but the crowd ate him up.

"AND HAVE YOU NOTICED THE ENTRANCING DIVA ABOVE ME, AND TO MY RIGHT?!"

Mary Grayson was opposite him, beaming and waving to the throngs of onlookers. Dick seemed overly pleased with just how beloved his folks were, before they'd even started the act.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I HUMBLY PRESENT TO YOU JOHN AND MARY, THE FLYIIIIIIIING GRAYSOOOOOOOONS!"

The couple took their places, gripping the ropes as they prepared to swing, all the while cheered on by the thousands there to see them that night.

"ALLOW ME TO REMIND YOU, MY DEAR AUDIENCE, THAT THE FLYING GRAYSONS USE NO NETS, NO SAFETY MEASURES IN THEIR ROUTINE! SO PLEASE, REFRAIN FROM ANY FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY, AND ALLOW THEM TO GIVE A SMOOTH FINISH AS THEY CAP OFF OUR WONDERFUL HALLOWEEN NIGHT TOGHETHER! AT THE GREATEST! SHOW! ON! **EARTH!**"

Rather than cheer, the crowd fell into silence as Haly retreated once more from the ring. Their eyes were fixed on the Graysons, ready to begin their act. A nod between them, and the music began. They swung, and all at once Barbara saw magic.

The couple swam through the air, their grace coming only from decades of practice and raw talent, blended together into a moving performance with fluidity like water. They spun around one another, tossing each other like bullets through the sky as they moved from swing to swing, rope to rope, all as planned in their mad, beautiful dance. With every flourish of the strings, the crash of the drums, they soared ever higher in some new manner that drew gasps, screams, and cries of elation from all those with the stomach to watch.

The redhead felt curious, and looked at Dick as he watched on. His jaw was hanging open in amazement, following their every move with shining, childlike eyes. This wasn't just his life, she realized. It was his passion. She felt that she couldn't help but smile, seeing the boy so enthusiastic. The night was going better than she expected. Bruce or no Bruce.

But high above them, a figure in the shadows was lining up his shot. Floyd was nearly read, his wrist held out as he waited for the perfect moment. One shot, two targets. It would be quick, efficient, and allow him ample time to fly the coop. His moment came a minute later.

John and Mary leaped from their swings, meeting in mid-air in a planned collision, spinning around one another and stealing a quick kiss. The audience was so entranced, no one would notice.

But Barbara did. Barbara and Dick both saw the conspicuous red dot on the back of John Grayson's head, jittering as it lined up the perfect shot. Their elation turned to numb horror as they screamed, trying to get the acrobats' attention. But it was far, far too late for that.

A shadow was falling from above. A muzzle flash came from the darkness.

_BANG._

* * *

Jim led the way into the warehouse. It was warmer inside, a relief. But that didn't stop the chills running down his spine. His men followed him in, eyes immediately drawn to the walls, and the shelves holding strange cargo.

Humanoid figures surrounded them, hunched over and lifeless. Spray-painted black as the night, with orange hands, and featureless fleshy heads. By the time they'd reached the center, Jim had lowered his weapon, too shocked to do anything but gawk.

"My god… The WorkerBeez. All the tech, the machinery. He hasn't just been stealing it, he's been building. Building a… a…"

His eyes snapped back to focus, and he glared at Victor just as the man was about to make a snide remark.

"Not a _word_, Sage."

"But what's with the faces?" Bullock muttered, aiming his weapon in disgust at one. "They look almost like… human skin, but without mouths or eyes."

"Oh that? That's Pseudoderm."

The hairs on the back of the chunky man's neck stood straight up. That voice didn't belong to any of the officers.

Jim and the others lifted their sidearms, taking aim at the far wall of the warehouse. Cloaked in shadow, a single white eye stared them down, its focused black pupil boring right into their souls. His smooth voice spoke again.

"Another Star Labs miracle. Looks, feels, and acts just like human skin; could be used to patch up injuries in seconds… or to give that right 'human' touch to an army of droids. Wouldn't you say it works, Jim? I'd say it does."

This was it. This was him. Gordon stepped forward, his weapon dead on his target. He snarled, and growled "We've got you cornered, Wilson! You're a slippery bastard, but you've got nowhere else to run!"

"Run? Oh, Jim, I've never been running."

A loud snap of Wilson's fingers was answered by the humming of machinery. On every side, the WorkerBeez jerked to life, jumping to the floor and cracking their joints, straightening their spines and stepping into line. Five, ten, twenty, forty. Gordon lost count as they surrounded the officers. Gordon's hands trembled, but he clenched them until the sensation was gone. He hadn't come this far to _fail_. He formed a circle with the others, each officer pointing a pistol in a different direction. Four against dozens. He almost felt bad for the bots.

"This doesn't change a damned thing, Wilson! You just get your beating _after _these tin cans!"

The voice in the shadows tutted. "Oh, Jim, always so formal. So business-like. Wilson? That's my father's name; there's no need to be so cold. We're _friends_, right, Jim?"

The man stepped forward, and out of the shadows, his whole body visible. From neck to foot, he was covered in jet black armor, so dark it reflected no light. Gray accoutrements hung across his waist, his biceps, his chest; little weapons and gadgets of every sort. But that didn't catch Jim's eye. The mask did that.

It was split straight down the middle. The right side was as black as the armor, and hid his features entirely. But the right, made of the same material, was a bronzed-orange color, with a single opening for a fierce eye to peer through. He could see no other parts of his face, but Gordon could feel the smile as he cooed.

"Please… call me Slade."


	12. Chapter 12

_BANG_

The crowd was hushed, watching in terror for that brief moment. A bullet shot through the air. Its aim was precise, and did not deviate from its course. Even so, it failed to strike the Flying Graysons. It punched a jagged rip through a billowing black cape.

No one could believe their eyes as the cloaked figure scooped up the couple in his arms, yanking them out of the shot's path. But believe or not, he was there. The Dark Knight had returned.

Still dropping with his cargo, Batman retrieved a grapnel gun from his belt, firing a cord to the walkways above, swinging down to the ground.

Dick stood from his seat, watching the shadow guarding his parents with an enthralled expression. "Who's that?!" he cried.

The voices in the crowd, between the screaming and cheers answered his question. Confused voices asked, "Is that Batman?!" "I thought he was dead!" "Go Bats!"

People all around were scrambling for the exits, their excitement not dulling their senses _that_ much. Bat or no Bat, they had no desire to be in an enclosed space with a shooter. Barbara grabbed onto Dick's arm, pulling him back before he could leap over the side and run to his folks. "Stay here, you wanna get shot?!"

"I wanna help!" he insisted, trying to yank himself out of her grip. "Let go!"

Biting down to suppress a yowl of frustration, she placed a hand on each of his shoulders and shoved him down, crouching beneath the wall that separated them from the show floor with him and shoving a finger up to his face. "Batman has it handled. Your parents are safe, you'll just be making yourself a target! You think they want to deal with that right now?"

Dick scowled at her, hoping his rage would be all the reason needed. But after a moment he relented, looking no less angry as he averted his gaze. "…Fine. But I'm not leaving."

"That's fine, too." She agreed, taking the briefcase in her hand as she prepared to move. "Wait here, I'll be back."

"And where are _you_ going?!" he hissed indignantly.

Barbara frowned, trying not to look to embarrassed as she admitted, "I need to find Bruce."

Dick nodded, instantly understanding. "Don't ever say I've stood between a pair of lovebirds."

In all the confusion, there simply wasn't time to slap Grayson for that comment, but he redeemed himself by pointing over the side of the wall. "Don't follow the crowds, though. Take the tunnels beneath us here, they head back to some dressing rooms hidden beneath the grandstands; there's a back door."

"Wow, uh, thanks." She said, unsure of what to say. Dick just patted her arm and motioned for her to stand.

"Don't mention it, just go!"

Nodding back to him, Barbara hopped over the side, dropping several meters to the floor below. Instinct taking over, she tried to tumble and roll with the impact. She failed, and felt her ankles sting with pain as she smacked into the dirt. The adrenaline pumping through her was too potent to ignore, though. She scrambled back into the tunnel, seeing there was a bend up ahead, presumably heading to the dressing rooms Dick had mentioned. But she didn't go, this far in was enough. She clicked open the briefcase as soon as she was able to put in the lock combination, and was met by her eared helmet staring back at her.

She nodded. "OK. Showtime, Batgirl."

She tossed off her shirt and nearly tripped removing her jeans, mumbling curses as she kicked her shoes off and stepped into the undersuit. Next came the arms and legs, clicking the ceramic protection with fumbling fingers. The torso was next, and even in the darkness of the tunnel she was able to clearly see the prominent yellow bat outline. She couldn't help but smile as she clicked on the belt and clasped the cape to her shoulders. Last came the helmet, or cowl. Her hair was bunched up beneath the undersuit as it was, and it occurred to her how uncomfortable this was as she jostled the last piece of the ensemble on. A loathsome thought, but her locks might need to go if this becomes a permanent thing.

She clicked on the last few locks, securing the helmet in place. She wished she had a mirror, but she certainly felt… something. Powerful? Maybe that was it. Whatever it was, she liked it. Now all she needed to do was find a way to get up to that shooter unseen…

"Miss Barbara, is that you?"

The voice of the old Mr. Pennyworth buzzed in her ear, and she answered instantly.

"Alfred? What's going on out there, how's Bruce?"

"I don't know," the butler admitted, a tinge of worry in his voice. "He hasn't turned on his comm-link yet. I can't communicate with him."

"I guess you're my mission control then." She replied. The corners of her lips turned up as an idea began to form.

"Hey Alfred, what'd be the best way to get to a really high place, really fast?"

* * *

John Grayson's heart was pounding like a jackhammer, and he gripped at his chest as his wife wrapped her arms around him, nearly hyperventilating. He shushed her, patting her head as he looked up at the sentinel standing over them. He'd heard the rumors when the tour drew close to Gotham, but he'd never believed them. Now the Gargoyle of Gotham was standing in front of him, having just saved he and his wife both from certain death.

"Th-thank you, Batman." He whispered. The man in the mask cast his eyes down at him and did not visibly improve in mood.

"You're sitting ducks out here!" he growled. "You have to—" he stopped to duck down, his forearm catching a bullet intended for Mary. She shrieked, but it seemed to have ricocheted off the armor harmlessly. "You have to go NOW!"

"We're not leaving without Dick!" John insisted, his wife nodding furiously in agreement. The Bat snarled and retrieved a pellet from his belt, throwing it to the ground and releasing a quickly-expanding cloud of smoke. They were enveloped, and they could barely make out the stranger's silhouette pointing to the nearest exit.

"Get out of sight, and circle back for him! I'll distract the gunman!" Batman ordered. They voiced their understanding and agreement. As fast as their feet could take them the Graysons sprinted for the nearest tunnel, while the Dark Knight emerged from the smoke, staring up at the movement in the shadows.

Far above, Floyd Lawton was reloading and glaring at the speck below him. He spat before taking aim with his wrist again. "That son of a bitch made me miss. I _never_ miss."

His scope fed images into his right eye, of the scowling face and blank eyes of the Bat. So this was the legend that they'd whispered of. He scoffed; didn't look like much to Floyd. "Bring it on, Dark Knight. I missed the Graysons, but I won't miss you."

Batman whipped the grapnel gun out once more, the cable whizzing through the air and strapping itself to the bottom of the very platform Floyd stood on. The assassin had expected the projectile to be aimed for him, and grunted in surprise. The cloaked man far below him was pulled up and ahead by the force of his little gadget, moving like a passing shadow through the empty circus tent. Lawton gritted his teeth and aimed dead-on at his chest.

_BANG_

The shot hit the little bat on Bruce's chest head-on… and beyond a deep ache in his muscles, nothing occurred. Wayne grinned, imperceptibly from such a distance.

_Stupid. Thinks I'd put a bull's-eye on my chest without bulletproofing it?_

Batman continued closing the gap, and Lawton faltered for a second. Then, an idea struck him. He aimed at the cord, and with a shot split it.

Batman blanched.

He continued moving forward by nothing but momentum, already losing height as another shot was lined up. This time, it'd go for the head. Exposed skin. Easy kill.

_Don't panic, MOVE. Instinct, training, use it!_

His hand clicked into auto-pilot, and grabbed the first device it could. The Batline. Fueled by nothing but adrenaline and reflex now, Batman took aim above him and fired the device. The zipline spat out went both up and down, hooking itself to the floor and to the walkway some fifty feet above. It pulled taut, leaving him suspended in mid-air, gripping the rope by the hand-held launcher.

That wasn't good enough. The shot was coming any second. With all his might, Batman thrust himself up the rope, pulling his body along just far enough to avoid a fatal blow. The shot ripped along the cape resting on his shoulder, a glancing blow sparing him any spilled blood. The crisis of the moment was gone, but he knew all too well that he was still in danger.

His arms worked like machines, dragging him up one pull at a time. He felt his teeth grinding against one another; it wouldn't be enough. No grapnel, no Batline. Either he made it up this line without letting the gunner get another shot off, or he was finished.

And he had no idea how he'd do that.

* * *

Floyd chuckled to himself as he watched the Bat flounder in the air. He'd gotten lucky, he admitted. Luckier than any victim he'd ever taken a contract on. But his luck was fresh out. He slipped another bullet into his weapon, and savored the moment as he lined up the killshot. He'd put it right under his chin, up through the roof of his mouth.

"Say goodnight, Batman…"

_ZWIP_

Floyd howled in pain as metal claws dug into the right side of his face, crushing his eye-mounted scope and drawing blood as it tore a massive chunk of his cowl away.

"Uh, excuse me?"

The blood seeped from his wounds, stinging his right eye shut as he spun on his heels, crouching and taking aim with both wrists. He glowered at the figure in the darkness, a vague silhouette visible. Two glowing, blank eyes stared him down, and the outline of a yellow bat bared itself in the cold air.

"I think the behind-the-scenes tours start _after_ the show."

* * *

"Fire!"

The dark warehouse lit up like the Fourth of July as the finest men of the GPD leveled their weapons on the WorkerBeez. The featureless things advanced rigidly, like twitching corpses. All Wilson—Slade, had to do was snap his fingers. Luckily enough, these were prototypes. And worker droids had no reason to be walking around with bulletproof armor.

Jim fired a trio of rounds the moment they moved, capping a droid and putting an extra two in the kneecaps just to be sure. It fell like a domino; now for the rest to go with it. Three more shots directly in the chest of the next to step up. Jim felt like experimenting. Sparks flew, and it stuttered with each round, but it never stopped. Right then.

He put two more shots in its head, knocking it down for good, and reloaded.

Three came for Detective Blake, already overwhelmed as one picked up its pace and slammed into his side. He struck it on the back repeatedly with the butt of his gun, desperate for some kind of reaction. A grim reminder that these opponents were not human.

The trio had almost reached him when a blur snapped across their legs, knocking them to the ground in a neat row. Detective Sage rose to his feet once more, placing a bullet in their metal skulls. Jim smirked; Victor had always claimed to be a master of hand to hand combat. Now was as good a time as any to prove himself.

The mad redhead turned his rampage towards another bot in his path, tucking the gun in his pocket and going in fists swinging. A one-two combo rocked the bot, and an overhead swing crushed its skull entirely. Vic shoved the smoking husk to the floor and popped his neck, turning to face the next in his path.

The bot extended its arms and pushed its palms up against Vic's stomach, and a flash of yellow light flared up in the room. Before anyone knew what was happening, Sage was flying across the room clutching his stomach. The detective smashed back-first into the shelves on the edge of the warehouse, curling on the floor in pain. Several of the WorkerBeez turned his way, and advanced on him. Jim, still processing what in the hell had just happened, turned his pistol on them and squeezed off a pair of rounds. Two droids fell, but three more were still going strong.

A drone swept behind the Commissioner, grabbing him by both arms and restricting them as a second advanced from the front. Its open palm flashed yellow, and a powerful force blasted Jim in the stomach. Gordon lurched forward, unable to form words. It felt like he'd just been slammed by a truck.

A rage built in his chest, the howl of a cornered animal. He slammed his head back, smacking away the drone that had grabbed him. Not faltering for a second he did the same to the one in front of him. His head pulsed with blood, pain and rage, and every sense begged him to stop. He could never stop. Jim kicked the droid in the chest and knocked it away long enough to lean forward, flipping himself to the ground and atop Star Labs' abomination. His shoulder smashed its inhuman face, wresting the last buzz of life from its cold body. No time to slow down. He rolled back to his feet and swayed, throwing himself at the drone in his way. His palms smacked either side of its head and frayed its mechanical mind. A haymaker. A backfist. A flurry of a dozen raging, screaming punches disassembled its skull part by part until nothing was left. Its sizzling corpse dropped to the floor, leaving Jim panting above it.

His eyes scanned the room. They'd barely killed more than ten. Dozens were left.

He despaired. He shook his head, backing away from his self-inflicted carnage. A drone saw him and shot another yellow flash. He ducked, and the wall behind him was dented.

"What the hell?!" he yelled. "What _is_ this?"

"Oh, that?" asked Slade. Gordon snapped his attention to the shadows where Wilson still resided, calmly watching the struggle. "The WorkerBeez were intended for a wide range of tasks, such as mining. Those are concussive lasers, for clearing rubble. Of course, I suppose they'd also cause some _nasty_ bruises."

Jim shut out Slade's words. He'd enjoy smashing that mask. There was nothing else to do; he dove back into the fray.

Two of the drones jumped, tackling him to the floor. They lined up their palms with his head, but the sound of two bullets fired interrupted the execution. They fell away with no resistance, and Jim saw Detective Blake throw him a salute. He barely had time to return the gesture before John was smacked from the side by a droid's kick, his face scrunching in pain as he swung around to return the favor.

In the midst of it all, Harvey Bullock was tossing his meaty fists around like cinderblocks, smashing any skull that came close. He took a concussive blast to the shoulder, hopping back no less than three steps before the momentum relented, and he charged back. A swipe from the closest droid snapped his head to the side, and he stepped away to wipe off the flowing blood.

Bullock took a breather as he looked around. Blake was surrounded, firing off every round he could before the next, inevitable strike knocked him to the floor again. Gordon was flailing like a beast possessed, rapidly losing steam as the sheer numbers of the untiring WorkerBeez took their toll. He could barely stand to look Victor's way. The trio that Gordon failed to finish was all around him, cornering him into the wall and firing away with their concussive shots. Harvey could hear his cries of pain from where he stood. The giant shut his eyes, shaking his head in fury.

"Oh, _screw this!_"

Harvey turned and ran out the way they'd entered, disappearing in the growing mist.

"HARVEY!" Gordon yelled, his fury reaching a new peak. He should've known. Should've known never to trust that fat scoundrel. Never to trust _anyone_. The whole city could burn for all he cared. But tonight, he was bringing in Slade Wilson.

He drew his handgun again and fired into the crowd of drones. One, two, three, four fell. He reloaded. "JOHN, DUCK!"

Detective Blake fell to the floor, and Gordon opened fire again. One, two, three went down this time. He reloaded. In the corner, Victor's cries of agony reached his ears. Clean and efficient, one, two, and three. The WorkerBeez fell like a house of cards, leaving Sage to catch his breath.

He reloaded. Last clip. He'd aim careful. One, two, three, four, five, six. He threw the gun, and charged the seventh. Two more punches and it was down.

For a moment, just one blessed second, the WorkerBeez halted. A reprieve from the chaos. They began to converge in a semi-circle around them as John and Jim went back-to-back with one another. Vic limped over, blood running down his body and staining his white shirt crimson as he joined the others. His face was coated in bruises, and a swell of purple flesh covered where his left eye used to be.

Sage took a few breaths, and balanced himself on Gordon's shoulder.

"Commissioner."

Jim took a hacking gasp of his own and spluttered "Speak, Detective."

"After… after careful consideration… I'd have preferred being wrong, about the robots."

"Me too, Detective. Me too."

"With all due respect," John said, keeping his gun steady on the WorkerBeez arrayed against them. "can banter wait until they're all smashed?"

"Dunno about you, but I'm out." Jim admitted. He lamented not bringing more guns.

"They stomped on mine." Victor announced, lazily dragging up his fists and readying for the next round. "Guess I'll stomp them. Eye for an eye."

"Very brave words." Slade called from the other side of the warehouse. "But I think you may have miscalculated your odds."

"So we took some lumps smashing thirty of these junkers." Jim retorted. "What's another dozen?"

A nauseating sound like an amused laugh came from behind Slade's mask. "Dozen? Jim, you never show your hand. For example…"

He snapped his fingers, and the Commissioner felt his heart stop as the sound of clanking metal echoed off the walls. From the shadows marched dozens more of the WorkerBeez, fresh for combat and joining with their battered brothers. A vast, unbelievable weight tugged at Jim's arms, and they fell limply at his sides. This couldn't be happening. There was no way.

Slade called from behind his army, "This is what I meant, Jim, the very first time I spoke with you. When I asked you who would be doing the chasing. You've never been on my tail; I've led you _precisely where I want you to be._"

"Hey, you in the orange. _Shaddup_."

The crack of a discharged weapon filled the air, and a droid at the front of the collective went down with a gaping hole in its chest. The three men turned back towards the door, and saw Harvey Bullock with a shotgun in hand, two more strapped to his back. He marched up to join them, handing his spares to Blake and John, with a pistol for Gordon.

"Thought you'd left us, Bullock." John said. Harvey just chuckled and said,

"What, and miss out on the fun? I just thought we could use a little artillery on our side."

"Artillery: excellent. Shotguns: slightly less so." Victor wheezed, nonetheless loading his weapon. Harvey shrugged.

"Well, if you ain't liking the guns, I brought a backup present."

Two pistols unloaded, knocking down over half a dozen of the WorkerBeez. Renee Montoya stepped into line with the others.

"I found our reinforcements scurrying 'round the Wharves trying to find us!"

Victor mixed together a pained laugh and a cough. John seemed too shocked for words, and turned to Gordon to see his answer. Jim took one look at Montoya, and exchanged nods with her. Nothing needed to be said.

_Welcome back, soldier._

"Are things as bad as they look?" the returned detective asked. All present nodded. She nodded back. "Simple enough. Commissioner?"

Jim couldn't see himself, but he felt pretty wrecked. He couldn't imagine not looking to be in a similar state. "I'm fine, Detective. But this plan isn't working out so well."

"New plan, then." Victor suggested. "We kill the robots. Gordon, take Slade."

The Commissioner, hunched over, straightened himself up and clicked the safety off of his weapon. "As good a plan as any. Will you all be OK?"

"Just nab Wilson." John requested, handing his spare pistol ammo to Montoya.

"Right."

The members of the GPD shared a final glance before kicking off their feet, charging the ranks of the WorkerBeez. Their shots smashed their way through the line, their bodies hitting the mass of bodies with just enough for to let one man through. Gordon broke the rear of the line, and stretched out his arm, pistol gripped tight.

"SLADE!"

The shadow slipped away in the darkness, ducking out the back door. Jim didn't hesitate, barreling after him with every ounce of energy his crumbling body had left. He wouldn't get away. Not this time. Never again. Never. Never. Never.

* * *

Barbara's heart was aflutter with excitement. She'd nearly fainted with the sheer rush of shooting up from the stands by way of grapnel gun. A second use of the weapon and practically maimed the shooter, who was now glaring at her with all the hatred she believed a human could produce.

And she'd gotten off a quip, on top of it! This was going better than she could've hoped, but the very real dilemma of a gun aimed her way had presented itself. Her mind froze, and her body followed, unsure of what in the world to _do_ after what she'd accomplished.

A refined voice in her head answered that question.

"Miss Gordon, third pouch from the left, the metal rod! Press the middle button twice!"

No time to argue with the magical mind fairy; she grabbed the object in the appropriate pouch, which was indeed a metal rod about as thick as the kind of post used on a bunk bed. Her thumb twitched more than moved, slamming the button down twice. First, the rod extended into a staff nearly the length of her body. Then, it expanded into a fully-covering tower shield.

_Oh my god this is perfect!_

She crouched down, Lawton's return fire squeezed off just in time to smack uselessly into the shield. Barbara resisted the urge to shriek when the metal on the bottom left of her shield crinkled inwards. She was Batgirl, now. _No more scared girl under the stairs. Fight._

Letting out a roar to psyche herself up, she charged with the shield. Lawton fired two more shots, and nearly punctured the shield with the latter. But Barbara's assault closed the gap, and with all the strength she could muster she swung up and to the left.

The metal barrier smacked head-on into the sniper, and knocked him onto his back. He rolled backwards and onto his feet again, and Barbara's attempt at a second swing ended when a snap-shot hit the shield out of her hands.

"Alfred, are you still there?!"

"Yes, Miss Barbara."

"Any thoughts?"

"Batarang?"

She knew those well enough; first pouch to the right, she fished out one of the projectiles and tossed it.

It missed entirely.

Barbara was thankful her mask hid most of the mortified blush.

"Oh, just kick him!"

Not a bad idea, Barbara agreed, and got up close, knocking him in the side with her leg. Floyd nearly went toppling off the walkway, but he balanced himself long enough to aim another shot at Batgirl and squeeze it off. She tensed up, leaning to her right and bringing her shoulder to bear the shot. The bullet slammed into her upper arm.

Barbara huffed a sharp breath of air. She'd read on the pain she should be feeling, and this wasn't it. The armor had held, then. Her racing mind picked up on something in the middle of the moment: he was squeezing his fingers against his palm every time he fired. That must be where the trigger is. She couldn't speak much for her throwing ability, but a blade was a blade. She grabbed another Batarang and balled her fist around it, swinging a punch straight for the palm of Floyd's hand.

The bodysuit was cut wide open, blood flowing as the trigger was split apart. The man yelped in agony and lashed out, slugging Batgirl in the face. She slumped over the railing of the platform, rolling back over as the bigger man lunged and wrapped a bleeding hand around her throat. Her hands grabbed at it, helplessly trying to yank it away as he moved the barrel of his remaining cannon to line up with her eye.

Fear fueled her as Barbara fought back, grabbing his good hand and pushing it away; a delaying action at best. He had the height and weight advantage.

"Any ideas, Alfred?" she whispered.

"Your gloves can dispense a significant shock on contact; it should incapacitate him."

"Great!" she hissed, feeling her strength slipping as he continued to seek an angle to choke her out.

"Who the hell are you _talking to?_" Floyd growled, sincerely suspecting he was fighting a bona fide nutcase.

Barbara ignored him and asked, "How do I use it?"

"Erm… oh dear."

'Oh dear'? Barbara didn't like the sound of that. The butler clarified, in his usually calm tone, "It seems that it's voice activated. Only Bruce could use it with the suit as it is."

"Well, _fix it!_" she screeched back, the anger giving her just enough power to shove the encroaching hands back an inch or two. The infuriating humming of Alfred, deep in thought, buzzed through her communications channel before he told her, "It seems I can activate it remotely."

"DO IT!"

It was a gamble, but she had to try _something._ Batgirl released her grip on his hands and slammed them both onto his face. The left right up against his mouth and the right on the exposed flesh where the grapnel's claws had cut him. Her yellow palms flared blue as 50,000 unstoppable watts flash-fried the man.

OK, maybe that was an exaggeration on her part. But it looked like it _hurt_. The man was howling like a banshee as he backed away from her, smoke rising up from his flesh. Not even looking anymore, he aimed in her general direction and started firing. He was wide, but his aim was improving. It didn't improve enough to stop the shadow descending on him.

Batman fell on him like a vengeful phantom, throwing punches with the power of a steamroller in every blow. Barbara could hear bones crack and meat being tenderized. Two hands reached behind Floyd's skull and brought it down to meet the Bat's rising knee. It wasn't a pleasant meeting.

The assassin hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. Barbara looked at the man, at all the blood leaking from his wounds—and not a moment after she'd cauterized them, too—and then at Batman. He was scowling down at the would-be killer, but his fearsome gaze turned to her in short order. His voice was low, harsh. Harsher than she'd ever heard him.

"WHAT do you think you're DOING?" he snarled, leaning in to her face. He didn't have to question who was under the cowl.

"Helping!" she insisted, lowering her voice an octave almost without thinking. Nothing Bruce could say would scare her out of this, she assured her own quavering self. She might as well settle into the role.

"You think this is helping?!" Bruce questioned, gesturing at the man behind her. "You nearly roasted that man's brains out of his own skull! And that's _after _he almost killed you! Do you understand that, Bar—Batgirl? You could have died!"

"So could you!" she shouted back, leaning into his face and shoving her palm against his chest. She had no power to move him, but he did so regardless. "Br—Batman, you could be dead just as easily as me! You _would have_ been dead if I hadn't shown up! Stop treating this whole damned crusade of yours like it's a private party!"

"Party?" Batman asked, flabbergasted at the very mention of the word. "Is that what you think this is? I wouldn't wish this on anyone! There's no chance in hell that I'd let you do this to yourself!"

Barbara threw her arms in the air, beyond mere frustration now. "To myself?! Do you see what _you're_ doing every night? Dressing up like a bat and getting the crap beaten out of you by every freak you can find in some back alley? It's bad enough you do that, but if I'm supposed to be your friend, then I can't let you do it alone!"

She leaned closer, dripping every ounce of vitriol and accusation into her speech to ask, "What are you so afraid of?"

Batman faltered, turning away. Hardly above a whisper, she could hear him say, "…If anything happened to you, I…"

Whatever Bruce said next, Barbara didn't hear it. Her eyes homed in like targeting computers on the shooter, reaching into his pouch. Face bloodied and broken, only a few teeth remained in his crooked smile as he fished an unpinned grenade out, holding it up to show her.

"I… never… miss."

Panic seized her, and with no other options presenting themselves, she wrapped her arms around Bruce. She bent her legs and heaved, throwing all her might into tossing Batman over the railing and to safety. It worked, and Bruce went tumbling to safety, only catching a glimpse of the grenade, realization dawning on him in the coldest terror.

"_BARBARA!_"

The voice echoed in her ears as she turned away, wrapping her cape around her in a futile attempt to absorb the blast.

'_Batgirl', huh? It was fun while it lasted…_

* * *

Jim Gordon felt his entire body trembling as he charged through the night air. The mist was coalescing on his body, freezing him down to his marrow. But he couldn't stop, not with Wilson so close.

Slade was just beyond him now, slipping around each corner with only the barest lead, and he was closing the gap. Gordon had spent his entire career on the force. He'd outrun faster punks than this. Slade was a sprinter. Jim? Jim could run this marathon all day.

He knew his way around the wharves, and nearly clicked his heels in joy when Slade turned the next corner. It was a dead-end. Sure enough, as soon as Gordon himself made his way around, he was pointing his gun at a man fully out of options. Slade was backed against the wall, slowly turning to face his pursuer.

"It seems we're at an impasse, Jim."

Gordon, between his heavy breaths, just took aim with his pistol. "On the ground, scum!"

The mask was rigid, but if he didn't know better Jim could've sworn that Slade arched his eyebrow at him.

"Ground? Now, why in heaven's name would I do that?"

"I warned you!"

Jim squeezed the trigger, and the bullet smacked straight into Slade's chest. The bullet pinged off as if it didn't even exist. Slade's eye visibly narrowed, and with a bit of irritation asked "Was that supposed to do something?"

Jim scoffed with contempt for his weapon and tossed it aside, bringing up his dukes and spitting on them for good luck. "It was a warm up shot," Gordon retorted. "it comes right before I beat your ass into the next calendar. You don't get to run anymore!"

His feet pushed him along, and Jim charged into the alley, leading in with all the force he could put into a rushing punch.

He didn't know what had happened. In a flash, Slade moved faster than the eye could follow, snatching up Gordon by his hair with his right hand and yanking him out of balance. The left hand casually slipped a knife between the officer's ribs. Jim nearly gagged from the sudden onrush of pain, but Slade wouldn't give him that luxury. His hand roughly yanked the Commissioner's face around to look him in the eye.

"Oh, Jim, when will you learn?"

The eye narrowed to nothing but a slit, and his next words came with such a low growl of fury, Jim could hear the devil behind them.

"_I've never been running._"

Slade's hand moved like lightning, slamming the side of Gordon's head into the nearest brick wall.

* * *

Dick remained where he had promised he would, watching the exchange of blows up in the farthest reaches of the circus tent. He could hardly see anything, but whoever that man was, he was getting his butt handed to him by somebody. Not Batman, though. He was still climbing the rope; nearly there, but not quite. He was transfixed on the exchange of blows when two voices called out behind him.

"Dick!"

"Robin!"

He turned, and didn't even stop to question as he hugged his parents as tightly as he could. He felt his spine ready to crumble under their combined strength. He didn't mind, though.

"Oh thank god, Dick, we were so worried!"

"Dad, I was worried! You almost got shot!"

"None of that matters!" Mary insisted, squeezing the both of them tighter just to shut them up. "You're safe, we're safe, that's all that's important."

"Not quite." John reminded her. With a gentle nudge he broke off the hug and set his hands on his boy's shoulders. "Dick, where are Barbara and Bruce?"

"Bruce left the tent before your act, he never came back. Barbara left in all the big rush to go look for him."

"Okay, at least they're out then." John said with a sigh of relief. "A-all right, everyone, think. We need a plan. Is it safe to move?"

Dick peered over the side of the wall, at the action happening above. It was hard to tell, but it seemed the man was down. Batman and the stranger were… talking.

"I… I think the gunman's down. The other two are… wait. Wait, something's happening, they're—"

"_BARBARA!_" came the cry from above.

_KRAKOOM_

An entire section of the walkway was decimated in shrapnel and smoke, and beside Batman's tumbling body two more came streaking down. The Graysons watched, petrified, as the Bat flailed in midair, desperately trying to right himself. He flipped over twice, before at last his cape solidified into a single wing-like shape, allowing him to swoop down and snatch one of the bodies from the air. The second hit the grandstands on the far side of the arena with a sickening crunch.

They'd all heard the name Batman called. They weren't sure what that meant, but they had to check. They hopped over the side, rushing out to meet the Bat as he landed. Most of his face was hidden behind the mask, but the look of terror couldn't be missed. It was like he didn't even notice them there. His only care was the woman in his arms. The armor was wafting smoke, charred and splintered from the blast. He wrestled with the helmet, wrenching it away and stripping back the mask from her face.

The entire world seemed to change, the air itself becoming a sickly pallor of green and yellow when the Graysons saw the gashed face of Barbara Gordon revealed. Mary looked away, unable to handle the shock; her husband embraced her, bowing his head and averting his eyes. But Dick watched. He couldn't tear his eyes away as Batman desperately worked. He ripped away the covering on her torso and pressed her chest, performing CPR. His breathing was frantic, erratic as he listened for any signs of life. Minutes passed.

A grim silence fell, only the distant sound of the blowing fans above them providing indifferent ambiance. Slowly, uncertain of what to say or do, it seemed, Batman leaned back from the body. On his knees, he silently crouched and buried his face in the palm of his hand. Dick thought he saw tears on his cheeks.

It struck him, then, that something was off in the air. Something smelled foul. He'd never experienced it before, but it was raging in his nostrils like all the world had gone wrong. He looked up, and almost mechanically asked "What's that smell?"

"Smell?" asked a raspy voice. The Graysons and Batman alike felt a shiver in their spines as they looked to the grandstands. Over the wall leaned a figure thin as bone and covered in rags, glowing eyes beneath a straw cap staring them down with a sewed-on grin. "That's the smell of _fear_, Mister Grayson."

All around his body, the strange figure seemed to exude noxious green smoke, polluting the very soul of the world around him. His grin split open, revealing a twisting, twirling array of spiders and creatures of the night within his burlap skull.

"After all… what's Halloween without a few _scares?!_"


	13. Chapter 13

The lanky figure slunk to the edge, flipping and falling over as if there wasn't a bone in its body. He hit the dirt with a light tap, like a cat, and took a few steps forward. His shifting, macabre grin seemed to pulsate with light and darkness as the creatures within moved.

"Was hoping for larger batch of test subjects…" it hissed in its strange, rasping tone. "But, hmm, yes… smaller clutch might be good for preliminary tests."

"_Tests?!_" cried Dick, balling his hands into fists. "What kind of crazed-up fruit-loop game are you playing?"

The creature's eyes, blank circles warbling and shifting in size stared at him incredulously. "Game?" it asked. "Not a game. _S__cience_."

The thing bowed, its hands of straw and burlap flapping helplessly in its own noxious wind. "Name is Dr. Crane, will be conducting this evening's experiment."

"What kind of freak doctor dresses up like a scarecrow?" John spat. Crane cocked a hideous eyebrow, scratching his cloth chin curiously.

"Scarecrow?" he asked. His eyes scanned the others, and seemingly autonomously he made little verbal notes to himself. "No disagreement from other subjects… they _all_ see me as scarecrow then? Hmm-hmm-hmm… _very, very interesting._ Suggests… shared trauma? Common, primal perception of academic minds? Ooh, the possibilities."

In a streak of green smoke, the figure drew closer, and its scratchy hand caressed the cheek of Mary Grayson. John swung a punch, only for it to swerve behind him and lock eyes with Dick.

"You'll be Patient A." the scarecrow declared. "Tell me, A… had any negative relationships with physicians?"

The broad frown on the boy's lips twitched, and he snarled back "No, though I doubt you'll enjoy all the money you'll have to pay yours tomorrow!"

The boy swung with his fists, but the lurching, inhuman shape snapped backwards. No trouble to the boy, Dick hopped forward and jammed a kick straight into the "doctor's" chest. Straight in, and straight _through_. Dick stammered, a sickly feeling broiling in his stomach as he saw the figure's chest split open in a flurry of red straw. Crane seemed to care little, not even noticing the injury.

"Intense physical reaction… mental delusions, to point of coping by the body to match perceptions. _Fascinating! _The dose hasn't even taken full effect yet."

"Say something that makes! Sense!" the boy demanded, ripping his foot away. The scarecrow dissipated in his diseased fog, reconfiguring behind Dick. The young acrobat felt his muscles aching, rebelling as the day's earlier scuffles caught up to him. But he couldn't stop without this nutjob on the floor. He advances with a downward strike, but his passes through Crane's torso as if it wasn't even there. Only a wisp of smoke showing the trail of his swing remained as proof of the attempt. His teeth ground against each other, helpless frustration and rage scratching at his insides. He turned around to the only man he knew could stop him.

"Batman!" he called. "Help us! Do something!"

His pleas were to no avail. The Bat kneeled beside the broken corpse of Grayson's newfound friend, catatonic and staring vacantly ahead. His mouth locked in a pained, despairing frown. He turned to his parents, calling for them. Maybe if they ran, they could find police. Somebody to—

Dick knew instantly something was wrong. His parents were staring blankly ahead. Their eyes were glazed over, as if locked in a trance. He reached for Crane, wrapping his hands around dissipating scraps of a shirt. "What did you do to them?!"

"Nothing!" the scarecrow cackled. "That's the beauty. The patients are given no stimuli… they make it all themselves! Tell me, Patient A…"

He leaned in close, the smell of rotting flesh overcoming Grayson's senses.

"What do _you _fear most?"

A crackling, flaking limb erupted from Crane's stomach, grasping Dick's head and forcibly wrenched it around towards his parents. His eyes widened as the ground beneath them crumbled, and spiked of molten steel came from below. Their bodies were suspended in the air, wounds cauterized by the intense heat. They would not die quickly, and their screams echoed in his ears. For a moment, his soul wavered. And then, it lashed out. There was a bright, white flash, and before Dick could regain his sight, he realized he was somewhere different.

The dirt floors of the circus were gone. He seemed lost in an endless fog, faintly green and smelling of things he never wished to speak of. Memories of regrets long-buried wafted in the air, tingling his nose and burning his sinuses. Ahead sat the scarecrow on a winding staircase, beckoning him with a finger.

"I think it's time we had a private session, Patient A. Please,"

A couch made of nothing but the air appeared by Crane's side, and he patted it invitingly. "have a seat, tell me what's on your mind."

Dick shook his head. None of this could be real; it couldn't be. He had no clue where he was, but he'd beat the answers out of Crane's disgusting mouth. He advanced, pointing at the sick doctor before pounding his knuckles together. "_Your_ mind's gonna be splattered all over my fists in a second, doc!"

He broke into a run, dashing up the staircase towards his prey. Crane hopped to his feet, retreating and taking notes as he went. "Patient A reacting highly erratically… allergic reaction, perhaps? Or does anger… no, _willpower_ have an adverse effect? Oof, unfortunate implications for use on unwilling inmates at Arkham…"

* * *

"Dad!"

"John!"

John Grayson watched in despair as spindly, gnarled fingers drew his family into the darkness of the tunnels beneath the circus. For a moment he stood still, his body numb and shivering. But only a moment. A grim determination took him over. Was this the feeling his son felt, that spurred him into all his fights? As soon as he took him back from that… that whatever it was, he'd have to apologize for all the disagreements they'd had.

He understood now.

He charged into the darkness, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd have liked to tell himself he felt no fear, but he needed to be truthful. He was more afraid than he'd ever been in his life. But right now, that just spurred him on. He couldn't bear the thought of losing his family. That was no life at all, a life without them. He rounded the bend in the tunnel and was met with a dozen different rooms, where the other acts prepared in the last moments before their cue. John stepped silently down the hall, listening intently. There were no sounds he could hear clearly, but something was hanging in the air. Something dark, damp and foreboding. Whatever it was, he knew deep in his bones that it was something to hate.

A door creaked to his right. Inside, he saw a shadow slumped on the floor. He leaped through, and into a dressing room with a hole in its ceiling. Above, the weak seats had been smashed through. The shooter was collapsed in a broken heap on the floor, blood seeping into the carpet. John snorted with contempt for the despicable man, but he realized that he might not be useless.

He pulled his own noise to avoid the smell, and patted the corpse down for anything of use. Certainly enough, he felt a lump in his vest. John ripped it open and retrieved a handgun from the interior. The cold weapon sat like an unrefined lump of coal in his hand. It was a sobering thought, bearing a weapon like this. His finger tightened around the grip. Anything for his family.

"AAAAAAAIIIIIEEEEE—"

He recognized that voice. His wife. And it was close. John sprinted from the room and down the hall; he was certain he knew the room they were in. Gun clenched within his hands, he kicked the door down.

The weapon clacked to the ground, slipping from his loose grip. His knees gave out, and he collapsed to the floor. His eyes took the information in, but his numb mind could hardly take it in. Suspended by festering black webs, his wife and child hung lifeless from the ceiling, their torsos scooped away by the digging claws of some beast out of sight. And between their dangling bodies, faces frozen in eternal fear, the scarecrow was watching him with its infernal grin.

* * *

Mary Grayson looked about frantically, calling the name of her husband. He'd disappeared without a sound. This couldn't be happening, not now! The family had to stick together. God knows what her impulsive boys would do under the stress. Fear filled her as she sought out those bright blue eyes, but a muffled yelp drew her attention away from him.

Her son was being dragged away, Crane's fetid claws wrapped tightly around his mouth, and a mocking finger brought to his ragged lips to shush her. The fluttering shadows of its body dragged the youngest Grayson to the base of the grand, wooden beams leading up to the highest platforms of their act. Shuddering, arachnoid limbs sprouted from the scarecrow's back, carrying it and its hostage up beyond Mary's reach.

She clenched her fists and her jaw. "Not _my _baby, you bastard!"

The matriarch sprinted to the ladder built into the beam, clambering up its reaches as fast as she could. Her mind was narrowed, focused like a speck of light through a magnifying glass. All she could think of was the ways she would hurt that creature when she reached it and her son.

* * *

Jim Gordon's mind was a bloody haze, his searing red vision distorted by pain, rage and shock. He recoiled from the wall he'd been smashed into as quickly as his breaking body would let him, but Slade gave him no respite. A perfectly-timed punch nestled deep in his gut and lifted the officer off of his feet. A gurgling, choking sound wriggled out of Jim's throat as he stumbled backwards, trying to steady himself.

Slade pursued him; Gordon was on the defensive. A cross-body strike that Gordon blocked with his upraised forearms; hurt like hell, but nothing important took a blow. He tried to counter with a jab, but the masked freak's waiting palm caught it and squeezed. Bones popped and crackled, and the Commissioner nearly screamed. But he wouldn't let himself take the easy way out.

_Funnel that rage, make it yours!_

Jim went for the unexpected move: the headbutt. His whole body shunted itself forward, and he met skulls with Wilson in a brutal collision. He drew blood from his own face, but the psycho recoiled. Just what he'd hoped for. He needed to press his advantage. He bounded forward and elbowed Slade in his exposed side, sending him reeling again long enough to throw a decent left hook and knock him upside his head. His jaw went straight up, and revealed his throat.

Jim was never one to play fair.

A fist rapped the crook's throat, and with a pained gag he smacked back-first into the wall. With his forearm, Jim pinned Slade by the throat and started throwing punches. Made no difference to him if he broke his own fist in the process, he'd crack that mask.

The blows rained down, but Jim's addled mind never noticed Slade reached and grab the knife stuck in his ribcage, and twist it by the grip.

Fresh blood sloshed from the widened wound, and Jim roared in unbearable pain. Frozen in place, the bleeding Commissioner could only watch helplessly as Slade returned the punches he'd been given. Jim felt his ribs crack and his nose shatter under the force of the blow, and with a backhanded smack the man of the GPD went hurtling to the ground, panting for what precious breath he could maintain. In the damp air, he could hear the advancing soles of his enemy's boots. Slade kneeled beside him, grabbing him by his hairs and pulling his head up to whisper in his ear.

"You're fading fast, Jim. For your own sake, I'd suggest you stop."

"…Hah… or what?" Jim asked breathlessly. "You'll kill me?"

"You'll die tonight either way." Slade assured him. "But if you'd stop fighting, it would be much more comfortable."

A bitter silence sat in the air, before Gordon scoffed. His elbow rose up and smashed into Wilson's mask, knocking him back and releasing his grip on the battered old soldier. Jim sprang from his prone state, looking like a cornered wolf as he sprung himself on top of the crook. Hands swiped through his pockets, the gleam of bronze knuckles wrapped tightly around his fingers as they collided with the bi-colored helmet. Two heavy punches disoriented the man called Slade, and an uppercut floored him onto his back. Jim straddled him, delivering punch after punch and roaring the entire time, "I die on my terms, _not_ yours!"

One, two, three, four. Four more. A dozen strikes cracked and splintered the mask. As Gordon raised his fist for the coup de grace, Slade's arms jerked to life and pricked two spots on Gordon's chest.

Jim's arms fell limp, numb and lifeless. He nearly whimpered in confusion before Wilson's fist wrapped tightly around his tie, yanking him down and connecting a bone-shattering blow with the side of the officer's face.

Gordon's entire world flipped, and suddenly he was on the floor, dazed and staring up at the man straddling his waist, raising his fist for a retaliatory strike.

"My turn." Said Slade.

_THWACK_

* * *

Barbara's eyes slid open, pain scraping at her from every angle. Her memory was fuzzy. The man had pulled a grenade, and she'd barely had time to get Bruce out of the way before it went off. Far above, she could see the dizzying top of the tent, obscured by a hazy fog she could only guess was from the pain. How had she even survived a fall from that high?

She tried to move, and felt a pressure beneath her, like the ground was uneven. With all the force her weary muscles could provide she rolled to the left, shakily rising to her knees. She patted her head, and realized that, somehow, her cowl had managed to disappear. She looked where she had landed, thinking that she might have been laying on it. Her insides roiled in a furious rebellion as she saw the shattered shadow lying there instead..

She dove for the body of Batman and flipped him onto his back. Blood was streaking down from beneath his cowl, and his chest was still.

Barbara shuddered, and her breathing grew erratic. "Oh god, oh god… Bruce! Bruce, can you hear me? Say something!"

She pressed on his chest in vain. She had no idea what she was doing; she wasn't trained for CPR. She felt a need to try something, though. Her mind raced with terrible thoughts. _He must have broken my fall… Oh god, but… what if he was already here? Did I do this?! Oh god no, I killed him!_

She collapsed, prostrating over his chest and sobbing. This couldn't be happening. This had to be a bad dream. She should be waking up any moment. But she wasn't waking up. She never would be, and on some level she knew that. She nearly choked as she spluttered out, "I just wanted to help…"

"_Help_?"

She jolted up, gasping for air as she met eyes with a disgusting, ragged scarecrow not five feet away. His illuminated eyes glowed with a diseased green light, and his stitched lips hinted at a terrible mass churning within his burlap sack for a face. The scarecrow asked in a rasping, disturbed tone, "That's what you call help… You killed him, Barbara."

She faltered, her chest heaving and her face twisting into a despairing scowl as she rose to her feet. Her knees were knocking together from the terror in her, but a rage within told her to stand and fight. "Y-you're lying." She insisted. "You have to be."

"Oh, do I?" the scarecrow asked. He strode closer, his disproportioned long legs granting him uncannily large distance with every step. Barbara felt repulsed, but stood her ground. "I saw everything, 'Batgirl'. If you think you're worthy of that title… You tossed him away and down, down he fell… until _crack_! He hit the ground like a bleeding slab of steak."

Hot tears were bubbling from her eyes, as Barbara reached for the Batarangs. She clutched one tight in her hand, shaking her head and trying to deny what she already knew was true.

"And of course," the scarecrow continued. He pulled up beside her, leaning in from the side to whisper his poisonous words into her ear. "that just wasn't enough… was it? You fell from the same heights, the same perilous heights. And you landed right. On. _Top_. Of him. Any life that may have been in those little lungs… just pushed right out. Pop!"

"_SHUT UP!_" Barbara shrieked, lashing out with the tip of the Batarang and tearing its edge across his chest. The rags split open, and a noxious cloud of green poured out and engulfed her. Barbara coughed and choked and spat, as gnarled tree roots reached from inside the gulf in his body. They wrapped around her arms and squeezed, hot bursts of pain shooting through her body. She screamed and ripped, the Batarang cutting the limbs away and freeing her long enough to sprint out of the cloud, coughing all the way. That wouldn't work. This thing wasn't human.

_What would Bruce do?_

The words comforted her, in a way. She was the Bat now. She had an example to follow. And Batman would find a way to stop it. She had no idea how to defeat this thing, but surely her remaining ally could.

"Alfred!" she called. "Alfred, are you there?!"

As if fading in from another world, his voice suddenly rang in her ears, growing in volume before returning to its normal strength.

"…iss Barbara, thank goodness! You've been quiet for minutes now, I was getting worried. What's in heaven's name are you doing?!"

"Trying to stay alive!" she insisted, throwing her fists up as she stared down the horrible creature standing on the other side of Bruce's body, maliciously grinning. "I don't know what this thing is, but it's not human!"

The other end went silent. A deep concern in the butler's voice bothered her when he asked, "Miss Barbara… _what_ thing?"

"The… the scarecrow thing!" she cried, bewildered that he even needed to ask. "What the hell else would I be talking about!"

Alfred quickly replied, "Miss Barbara, if there is some kind of scarecrow about, you're going to need to point it out to me. I'm not seeing anything of the sort."

"Right there!" she shouted, pointing so his camera feed could pick it up. "Right next to… to Bruce."

"I do see Bruce." He confirmed. "What's happening to him, Barbara, he still won't make radio contact."

Batgirl frowned, taking a deep breath. Why would he make her say it? "He… he didn't make it, Alfred."

That disconcerting silence returned. Slowly, Alfred tenderly told her "Barbara… do you trust me?"

She was confused, to say the least. "Of course, Alfred. W-why do you need to ask?"

"…Barbara, I see Bruce. But he's on his knees, clearly moving. And I see no scarecrow. I… I don't believe what you're witnessing is _real_."

The idea was more horrible to her than it should have been. She took a step back, even though Alfred wasn't present to back away from. "Th-that's not right. It can't be. Your camera must be screwed. There's no way."

Alfred spoke again, more forceful in his tone. "Barbara, cameras are very difficult to manipulate in real-time. The human body is much less so."

She shook her head, locking eyes with that horrible scarecrow again. "Alfred, you don't understand, I felt that thing attack me! It _hurt_ me!"

"Hm." Alfred grunting, hard at work at his station. "Your body's readings are highly erratic, like it's under induced stress. There must be… chemicals… Barbara! Does the air look off to you, or is it just my filter?"

"Actually… yeah, it does." She noted, looking around. "It's looked all weird and green since I woke up. I guess I… never noticed?"

"Miss Barbara, it's _imperative _that you follow my instructions without protest."

The scarecrow took a step forward, giggling to itself. Barbara took a step back of her own, leaning into a combat stance. The butler told her,

"On the very back pouch, there's a small mask that doubles as an air filter. Take it."

She felt around at the back of her waist. As he said, she felt the mask in its pouch and dragged it out. The scarecrow was coming closer. "Got it."

"Put it on, and quickly. It should start working immediately."

She pressed the mask to her face, and as if by its own reflex it suctioned the air out of the small space, attaching itself to her face as it fed its own supply of air in. All the while the scarecrow advanced. Out of its own chest it pulled a scythe, playfully swinging it through the air as it approached. The grin was sickening. "Alfred, that thing's getting closer. What do I do?"

"Nothing." Alfred told her. Her eyebrows raised in shock. "Stand still, and breathe deeply."

"Alfred!" she protested. "That's i—"

"_Barbara, do you trust me?_" Alfred asked, with all the subtle bite his decades of experience had collected. "I'd thought you had said you did."

Barbara groaned, biting her lip as she weighed her options. She supposed that she needed to try something. It still seemed crazy, but that described the night in general.

She closed her eyes. She could no longer see the scarecrow, but she could hear its footsteps scrunching the dirt beneath its light frame. It came closer and closer, but she calmed herself as best as she could. She breathed deeply, as Alfred had instructed. In, out, in, out. Step, step, step, step. As the scarecrow came within an arm's reach, she heard the scythe raise. Her muscles stiffened, and she felt sweat pooling up on her skin. But she continued to breathe, and wait. She heard the scythe swing, and waited for the impact…

And none came. Her eyes opened. The scarecrow was gone. And not far from her, Bruce was no longer a broken body on the floor. He was alive, on his knees and with a hand clutching his brow. Barbara's face lit up, relief and joy unlike anything she had felt. He was alive. "Alfred, it worked!"

"Excellent!" the butler stated. She could hear the relief in _his_ voice too. It was subtle, but it was nice to hear, now and again, that on some level he was as scared as she was. "Now, we need to get Master Bruce up. There should be a second mask on your person. You'll have to put it on him."

"OK." Batgirl answered, grabbing the mask as she stepped closer. "Easy enough."

* * *

Bruce felt his world crumbling. Rage roared in his heart, crying out against him. Failure, it screamed. A failure in every way. His body shook, miniature tremors as he held back the sobbing that threatened to shake him apart. His own thoughts betrayed him as he looked around. Barbara laid at his feet, lifeless. To his left, the bodies of the Graysons, blood leaking from their opened skulls.

_God DAMN it Bruce. God DAMN it, it keeps happening! You couldn't save Mom and Dad. You couldn't save Commissioner Lynns. You couldn't save Orson Hill. You couldn't save Arnold. You couldn't save the Graysons. You can't even save one girl…_

He looked down at the body. The faintest smile, the satisfaction of a job well done on Barbara's lips.

_Not even one girl…_

He roared, lashing out at the world in rage. His fist slammed the dirt, fruitlessly. He hunched far over, tears staining the ground beneath him. He looked up, and before him stood a gaunt, disgusting figure. A scarecrow, leaning in to caress his face and mock him.

"You could have saved her…" it told him. "and yet you didn't. Pitiful."

Batman's fist clenched. "_SHUT UP!_"

* * *

Barbara yelped and jumped away, barely avoiding a cracked skull as Bruce lashed out at her, screaming at the top of his lungs. "Bruce, what the hell?!" she yelled, but he didn't hear her. He stormed after her, swinging brutal punches. She only avoided him by what she assumed was divine mercy. His rage slowed him down, and made his moves sloppy.

"Don't bother reasoning with him, Barbara." Alfred told her. "He's consumed by whatever chemical is in the air, making these hallucinations. He's probably not even seeing you right now. It's some inner demon… God knows he has plenty."

"Well, how do I slow him down?!" she asked.

"Two ways. You'll need both in tandem, I imagine. The first is to get that mask on. The second is to press the spot just under his chin to activate my connection to his radio. After that, I think I can talk him down."

Barbara ducked, falling straight to her knees as she barely avoided a swing. Batman capitalized on her immobile stance and brought a knee straight into her chest and bowling her over. Her ribcage felt like jelly as she rolled back onto her hands and knees, scrambling to her feet as he came running for her. "Easier said than done! I need weaknesses, Alfred! ANYTHING!"

"Parry any left-handed blows!" Alfred told her. "They're fast, but between your suit and his sloppiness right now, they won't do much!"

Moments later, Batman lunged forward with a southpaw blow. Barbara remembered what little they actually taught you in those cheap-assed martial arts classes little children took for a month or two, and swung her arm from the inside out, catching the blow and knocked it away. Alfred had lied—that hurt quite badly. But to her benefit, the gauntlet held up enough that it was likely not even a bruise. Feeling cocky, she countered and swung straight for his nose.

Her whole face went white as a sheet when he caught the blow with his other fist. He squeezed, and Barbara felt the bones in her hand start to pop. She fell to her knees, gritting her teeth and trying not to scream as he threatened to break it with another twitch.

"Barbara!" Alfred said urgently. "Grab his face, now!"

"His face?!"

"I'll shock him!"

"Shock him!"

Barbara slapped her hand against Bruce's exposed skin, and the palms of her gloves lit up in a brilliant blue. Batman roared, backing away as he convulsed in pain.

"Now!" Pennyworth commanded. Barbara shouted a battle cry and slapped the mask onto Wayne's face. It attached automatically, and began pumping. "Now press that button!"

Barbara went to smack the switch, but Batman was faster. Her whole face went reeling to the right as a lightning-quick blow rocked her. A second punch to her stomach hunched her over and forward, perfect for an elbow to smash her back and knock her to the floor. She rolled over, groaning pitifully as the Dark Knight kneeled over her. The sadistic grin on his face told her that he was proud of the victory.

* * *

Bruce stared down the scarecrow, taking a dark satisfaction in the beating. Even as the poison pumped into him from the mask, he'd managed to bring it down. He could probably remove the thing if he wanted… but there was no point anymore. This was a good way to go. But not before breaking every bone in this creep's body. As he kneeled over the thing, he smiled and told it, "There. One more to the list of the people I let die. If you even count as a person. Any last words?"

The scarecrow smiled, the light fading from its eyes. The spindly fingers of its hand slowly reached for his face, to touch it once before death. Batman didn't move to stop it. No sense in denying it's final wish. It couldn't hurt him much, now.

Its stitched lips smiled, and in a pained girl's voice told him "…God, you're weird sometimes."

The finger clicked the button beneath his chin. And in an instant, a voice he mistook for the wrath of the Lord himself boomed in his ear.

"_MASTER BRUCE!_" bellowed Alfred, nearly deafening the poor boy as he jumped away and clutched at his ears in agony. "Explain yourself this instant!"

"A-Alfred?!" Bruce cried, his voice cracking and confused. "What are you—"

"Has all your training been for nothing?" the butler spat, stabbing at the core of Bruce's emotional weaknesses. "What did you learn in Jerusalem? Answer me, Bruce."

"I… I learned… 'Nothing is true.'" Bruce parroted.

"Correct." Alfred replied, though not one bit satisfied. "You make your own truth. Your own deceptions. Do you honestly mean to tell me you take what you see as fact so readily?"

Bruce felt confused and, frankly, terrified. He only saw this side of his butler and guardian once in a blue moon. He only wished the gaps were longer. "I don't understand, Alfred, what does that have to do with—"

"Take a deep breath, Bruce." Alfred instructed. He obeyed instantly, and without question. "Take ten, and calm your heart. And then tell me what you see."

Bruce did as he was told, closing his eyes and counting the breaths. It soothed him. He opened his eyes, and saw a sight that overjoyed and nearly killed him inside. The body that he'd just assaulted was no scarecrow. Battered and bruised, but with a gentle smile on her lips, Barbara slowly waved at him from the ground.

He faltered, unsure of what to say. He settled on two words. "You're alive…"

He dropped to his knees, picking the girl up and hugging her as tightly as his arms could grip. She didn't feel the need to protest that, and wrapped her arms around him in return.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He said, barely above a whisper. "I thought you were…"

Barbara shushed him. "I know. It's okay, Bruce. C'mon, let go. We're not done here."

He relented, although not without reluctance, and he and Batgirl stood. Bruce looked around at the strange green fog that he'd finally noticed. "Alfred, what _is_ this stuff? What's it doing?"

"As best as I can tell," Alfred informed him from the cave. "it seems to trigger intense emotional responses in the body, causing them to hallucinate a deep-seated fear… along with some kind of living, evil scarecrow."

Batman wasn't sure how that worked, but he knew one thing: the stuff had to be distributed from somewhere. He looked up, knowing instantly. "The fans."

He turned to Batgirl and grabbed her shoulder, pointing her out the back. "Barbara, get out back and look for the main fan. It should be feeding to all the ones in here. Find whatever's pumping these chemicals in, and _get it out_."

"Uh…all right." She said. "How?"

"Use this."

He handed her a small pistol grip, with a nozzle instead of a barrel, and instead of a hammer a small blue vial was stuffed into the device. "Spray this on the machine. Use the whole vial, and once you're done, get to a _safe distance_, and press the button below the vial. Understand?"

"Yeah."

"Then go. I still need to find the Graysons."

She nodded, flashing a coy and unseen smile. "Good luck, Batman."

Batgirl raced towards the nearest exit, leaving Batman to look around frantically for any sign of John, Mary, or Dick. A cry of distress attracted his sight upward.

"Oh no…"

Mary Grayson was at the top of a platform, no less than a hundred feet up.

* * *

Dick Grayson was panting, utterly exhausted. But Crane? Crane seemed to have not a care in the world. He seemed almost disinterested as he rattled off horribly inappropriate questions for the situation.

"Patient A, tell me… do you feel more angry, or afraid when you fight? In the lulls, does the lesser of the emotions take precedence over the greater? Perhaps you'd call it an even mix of both?"

Grayson roared, throwing a spinning heel kick that, once again, failed to connect with the ethereal scarecrow. "I'll call it whatever helps me hurt you more!"

He charged, ready to start swinging again, but Crane suddenly seemed disinterested in him. He was watching something else intently. "Oh my. Patient D is behaving quite erratically… fascinating. I wish I could hear her."

Just baffled enough to look, Dick turned around and saw what he was looking at. At the top of the beams stood his mother, facing off with a foe only she could see.

* * *

Mary was leaned forward in a furious stance, glaring down at the scarecrow that clutched her boy, dangling him over the edge. Its spine-chilling grin only made her angrier, as her scowl reached new and frightening heights. In a snarl, she demanded.

"_Give me my boy_."

"Oh, now why would I go and do that?" the scarecrow asked, cocking its head and frowning, confused. "We're getting such valuable data here. Between his screams and your yelling, well, it'd be a crime to stop the scientific process here."

"Shut up!" she howled. "You're just a monster. Now let go of my son!"

The smile that split Crane's face was sheer amusement.

"Oh, you did not just tell me to do that."

He let Dick go, and the boy fell, screaming.

"ROBIN!" screamed Mary, maternal instincts seizing control of her body. There was no hesitation as she leaped from the side of the platform, diving down towards her flailing son. She scooped him up in her arms, clutching him tight as she flipped around. She'd take the brunt of the blow. A mother's duty.

She patted his head, holding him close as she whispered, "It's okay, baby, mommy's got you—"

"MOM!"

She heard her son's voice, but not from her arms. She looked out into the grandstands and locked eyes with her son, staring at her, horrified. For a brief instant, she felt the same horror as she felt an empty space in her arms, where she had thought her son had been.

_KRUNCH_

She hit the ground alone, and confused.

* * *

Detective Victor Sage hit the ground, pain pulsing through every inch of his body.

He struggled back to his feet, struggling to ignore the agony in his muscles, all telling him to stay down. He would never stay down.

There were simply too many WorkerBeez. More than any man could ever hope to overcome. Bullock had been the first to go, swarmed by no less than a dozen of them. He was unconscious at their feet in moments, left alone to be finished when the rest were disposed of. He pumped his shotgun and fired and fired another round. With it, Vic managed to gouge out the circuitry of yet another droid. Just one cog in a vast machine. What could he hope to do against it?

He could fight. He would fight until Gordon told him that they'd won, and he could stop.

He could see that John would be next to go. Cornered against the wall, cradling an open wound that was rapidly proving his undoing. He could only hold a pistol now, and was rapidly firing away with it. A click told him and Victor both that he was fully out of ammo. With nothing left to lose, he threw himself into the throng of metal that had cornered him. That was the end of it.

Victor desperately wished he had time to light a cigarette. That was how all the old pulp fiction heroes went out. Gunning down every schmuck who got too close, a shotgun in their hands and a cigarette burning on their lips. It was a good way to die. He pumped the barrel and took down another one. To his left, practically touching his shoulder was Renee Montoya. The last friend he'd expected to have here. But, he believed that she was the most welcome. She was a lot like him, he'd decided.

Maybe a little more unorthodox than the big-wigs, the puppet masters would have liked. But she knew how to get dangerous when something needed roughing up. But more important… she always did what was right. Not what was good, or lawful. Just right.

That was the reason, he told himself, that he cried her name as a flash of yellow light struck her in the side of the head, knocking her to the ground, motionless.

That left him alone against the machines. There were too many to count. He pumped the barrel and smiled. "Bring it."

He fired a round as one droid charged, eviscerating it. Another shot his way, but he ducked beneath it and fired again, smashing its body and knocking it to the floor. Another kicked at him, but he blocked with his gun and staggered back. He fired again and knocked its head clean off. Two more came his way, one to the left and the other just to his right. He smashed the barrel into the left's face and fired, using the momentum to bash the stock into the other's head. Both hit the ground like wet noodles.

Another stood in his path. He leveled the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The click told him he was out.

He cursed under his breath and glared at the thing. In a low growl he said, "You have one shot. Better make it count."

A concussive burst smashed his belly and flipped him through the air. It counted.

Victor hit the ground hard, his vision blurring and started to darken. He was facing the door they'd entered from. The rain was pouring hard outside, and it was so dark he could hardly see past it. But there was something there, and he could see it very well.

A silhouette embossed against the rain. Two glowing red eyes. Two red eyes in a green face.

A voice in Victor's mind soothed him. _Rest_, it said. He complied. His eyes closed, and shut out the world.

* * *

Dick had forgotten his foe entirely, and sprinted down the steps, shouting for his mother. He had not made it down the third step before it was a futile gesture. But he ran with all the strength his body had, and yet more still. He leaped clear over the side of the ring, crashing into the dirt with unceasing momentum. He and Batman arrived at Mary's side in the same instant, the Grayson boy falling to his knees and reaching to touch her. His hands faltered at the last second, and he pulled away, unable to stand the sight he was looking at.

Batman observed his face, and felt his heart ache. His eyes were cold and dull, threatening tears that would never come. His lips were quivering, frozen in limbo between despair and rage. He could describe every facet of the emotion with excruciating detail. He'd worn it himself, one winter night. The Bat kneeled, putting a hand on Dick's shoulder as the boy bent over, finally building the courage to put a hand on the body's arm. His body silently shook, frozen like that. Batman, after a long silence, opted to move his hand, shutting Mary Grayson's eyes.

Footsteps echoed behind them, which only Batman turned to confront. Crane was hopping down from the wall. Not the scarecrow. His true form. It was pathetic to see such a sight. This was no demon, no monster. None such as could be matched to one from a book, anyway. The true beast was just a pale, thin man in a long, ratty jacket, with a look of disturbed hunger in his eyes.

"Patient has ended own life…" Crane muttered to himself. "Wonder if intentional suicide, or misguided action? Perhaps delusions of safety?"

Batman rose to his feet, facing down the madman with clenched fists. "You're disgusting, 'Doctor'. Someone just died!"

"Yes, a pity…" Crane agreed. "Needed as many test subjects as possible. Lost one patient… a pity."

Batman loaded a tranquilizer dart into his left gauntlet, taking aim and baring his teeth. "Stop talking like they're your damned toys! They're living, thinking humans! Can't say the same for _you_."

"Hmm… Patient B has overcome dosage. Increasing."

With a deft hand, Crane snatched a gun from his jacket and fired. Batman grunted in shock as a dart hit a bit of exposed undersuit, injecting its toxins. Batman removed the needle, tossing it aside as he strode forward. Already, the image of Crane was flickering. In brief flashes, the scarecrow was standing in his place. No matter. Batman braced himself for another fight. But first…

"My turn."

With a flick of his wrist, Batman shot his own dart into Crane's arm. That would slow him down. Maybe even knock him out in a few minutes. With that out of the way, the Dark Knight charged and threw a punch. Where he thought he'd seen the scarecrow exploded in a puff of hallucinatory smoke, and he looked to his right. Crane was there, a knife in his hand. Batman barely deflected the blow, and jumped back—the scarecrow's scythe nearly bisected him. He'd only avoided it by inches. He threw a heavy kick and bowled Crane over to his back, who fired another dart. Batman caught it in his cape, and dove to the ground. He'd subdue this one quickly.

* * *

John Grayson whispered the word "no", over and over again as he viewed the grisly scene. The scarecrow stepped forward, chuckling at his misfortune. "A shame. Really, a shame." It told him. "The hero arrives too late. His beloved and his only child, robbed from him. Or… are they?"

John could hardly believe his eyes as strange wisps of smoke coagulated in front of him. Within the form, he saw faces. Mary, and Dick. They smiled at him, and he felt a strange warmth, even as cold despair washed him. Ethereal hands reached out for him, beckoning him.

"Honey… don't leave us."

"Don't leave us, Dad."

Johns mouth fell agape, and even as his body began to sweat and tremble, he remembered. The gun was still by his side. Slowly, he scraped it up from the ground.

"Don't leave us, John."

His arm shook like he held the world in hand as he lifted the barrel to his temple. He shut his eyes tight, and his mouth drew taut in fear.

"… I won't. I won't leave you."

* * *

_BANG_

Batman and Crane alike turned towards the sound of the gunfire. As did Dick Grayson, who for the first time wrenched his eyes away from his mother. Creeping, terrible realization reached him. His eyes were wide open.

"Dad!"

He scrambled to his feet, sprinting towards the sound. Batman held a hand out, calling out "Dick, wait!"

He groaned in agony as Crane swept behind him, driving the knife into the muscle above Bruce's shoulder. Right where he'd been bitten. A tender area, to say the least. He slammed his elbow into Crane's face, only to hit the scarecrow instead, who disappeared in a poof.

"Hold still!" he shouted.

"No." the scarecrow whispered to his left. Batman swung at him again, only to receive a knife to the back for his trouble. Crane shook his head disappointedly.

"Tsk, tsk. Patient B sluggish, lax under effects of toxin. Too much strain on the body, too much. Remove effects in next batch."

His musings were cut short by a current of powerful electricity, channeled by the taser knuckles that Bruce had slipped on the moment before. He rubbed the pair together, generating sparks between them as he growled, "There won't be a next batch."

He slammed a fist into the scarecrow's stomach—and Crane lurched back in pain. Batman afforded himself a little smile.

* * *

Barbara stood in the pouring rain, out behind the circus tent. Before her stood the massive heating-cooling unit that fed every fan in Haly's Circus. And attached to it was a device full to the brim with the scarecrow's chemicals. She'd coated it—and the fan itself, in the strange, clear-blue gel that Bruce had handed to her. She stepped back ten paces—then upped it to twenty, just in case. Staring on at the machine, she pressed the button.

A pillar of fire and smoke engulfed the machine, eradicating it with extreme prejudice. She smiled at her handiwork. Now to get back in. The only issue that remained was the way back in. She'd never bothered to put her cowl back on, and now she was out in the soaking rain, looking forward to a long jog around the side of the tent to get through to the entrance.

But a thought occurred. Dick had told her there were back entrances and exits through the tunnels with the dressing rooms. Sure enough, she could already spy an entrance just to her right. Blessing her luck, she ducked through and into the familiar red tunnels she'd changed in. She started quickly walking back through, passing doors to various dressing rooms. But she stopped. Up ahead, through a door, she heard a sound. Choked, sobbing sounds.

She approached the door cautiously, and peered in. The sight almost caused her heart to stop.

Dick was alone in the room, crouched over the body of his father. A gun was by his side, and his head was surrounded by pools of blood and… something else. He was down on his knees, muttering. She approached, bending down beside him and looking at his face as she drew up. He shook his head, cheeks wet as he repeated "Why? Why, why, why?"

Barbara hesitated, unsure if he was speaking to her. "…It's a chemical in the air, that Crane's using. It does things to your head… makes you… not yourself."

Dick latched on to that name. "Crane. Crane…"

His face soured, a black rage slowly seeping through as he reached down, prying the gun from his father's hand. Barbara reached to stop him, but found herself frozen by the glare he gave her when she tried. Pure, unbridled hatred.

Dick stood, and silently stepped out of the room, gun in hand.

* * *

Batman flipped the scarecrow straight over him, dropping the man on his head. Crane was sluggish now, his nimble ferocity doing him no good with the tranquilizer worked through his system. Batman was almost there, he could feel it. Just one more good strike and—

In a flurry of motion, Crane jammed his knife straight into Batman's shoulder wound and dug it in, swirling the blade around. Bruce yowled and screamed in complete agony, all his thoughts and functions shutting down to react to the hurting. He fell flat on his stomach, gritting his teeth and fidgeting as Crane moved away, using his foot to kick in the little knife as far as it would go. Bruce couldn't take it; he screamed at the top of his lungs.

"Finally." The scarecrow said, exasperated. "Now, to find remaining test subjects."

Too late. The subjects had found him. The sound of another gunshot rang, and Crane's left knee was blown out. The "doctor" lost all pretense of his disgusting professionalism, and screamed in terror, shock, and pain. But he was hardly through with the agony. Another shot blasted his left shin, leaving him on the ground and crying like a child, begging for mercy. He would receive none. Dick Grayson was out for blood.

The acrobat was on him in an instant, howling in a dread fury as he smacked the twig of a man across the face with his pistol butt. It drew blood. He threw a punch and smashed in his nose. He dragged him by the shirt collar up to the pillar, propping him up and throwing a spinning back kick right into his collar. It snapped. Crane screamed, begging "Stop! Stop! For the love of God, sto-ha-hop!"

"_STOP?!_" Dick screamed, stomping on the blown-out knee and eliciting another cry of pain.

Barbara rushed into the room, and saw the brutal scene playing out before her. She saw Mary, and instantly understood Dick's rage.

"_You_ of all people, want MERCY?!"

Dick took aim with the gun again, and blasted him in the shoulder. Crane's blubbering reached a new octave.

"You diseased bastard, you don't even understand what you've done, do you?!"

"Pl-pl-please!" Crane begged, absolute fear in his eyes. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Dick screamed to the heavens, backhanding the murderer across his face and jamming the barrel of the gun up underneath his chin. "No. You're. NOT! You're a sick freak, who needs to be put DOWN like one!"

Crane was already unconscious.

A hand grabbed Dick's forearm, jerking it away. With anger written on every inch of his expression, Grayson stared down Batman, who had kneeled beside him to pull away the gun.

"Let go!" he warned. Batman narrowed his eyes.

"No."

"I said let go!" he tugged at the gun, but the stronger man wouldn't release his grip. "He's a monster, he deserves this!"

"Yes." Batman agreed. "He does."

"Then let go!" he pleaded, sadness welling up within his anger. "Please, Batman! He…" he shook his head to dispel the tears. "God, he _killed_ them! He killed them… please just give me this!"

Batman's face softened, but he would not concede. "I know what you're feeling, Dick. But it's not worth this."

"How?" Grayson asked bitterly. "How could you _possibly_ know what I'm feeling right now?"

He leaned forward, glaring at the Bat. "What gives you the right?!"

Batman reached up and pulled away his cowl. Dick was staring at the eyes of Bruce Wayne, the heir's face an unreadable mess of pain and anguish. In an instant, he understood the meaning of Barbara's words. The only heir.

"Because I've been where you are now." Bruce said, his voice weaker, cracking. "Where everything's just consumed by that one thought. You want to break him, hurt him, kill him in ways a thousand times worse than what he'd done. Just to make him understand what he did to you. But it doesn't change _anything_, Dick. It doesn't take away the pain. They're still gone, and you're left with the scars. There's just one more dead man in the pile. And… and you're still alone."

Dick stammered. His lips shivered as he shook his head, unsure of what to say or do.

He dropped the gun. His body shook as he began to weep, wrapping his arms around Bruce, crying loudly and muffling himself against his shoulder. Bruce returned the embrace, tears streaming down his grimy face in silence. They sat like that for several moments. With the fans off, only the faint pattering of the rain accompanied the sound.

Barbara watched on, pained in her inability to help. But she believed it was for the best she didn't. She had already thought the two kindred spirits before. Now… she wondered if maybe it was fate that Dick had met Bruce today. She approached them, carefully acquiring their attention with hands on their shoulders.

"Bruce…" she whispered. "We need to change."

In the distance, police sirens were closing in on Haly's Circus.

* * *

The blows rained down like artillery fire on Commissioner Gordon. Slade was precise, powerful. There was nothing he could do to stop them. He'd stopped resisting long ago. The final punch struck him hard, cutting open his forehead. Slade leaned in close.

"Don't pass out on me just yet, Jim. We're not finished."

Jim coughed, the blood catching in his throat as he tried to spit it up. He glared at the man in the mask and asked, "Why don't… don't you just finish me?"

The man just laughed at that. "That's no way to deliver a message. No, before I finish you, I want you to understand very clearly: I am stronger, faster, _smarter_ than you, or anyone you can bring to bear."

He leaned in close, nearly touching Jim's face with his mask.

"I will bring a shadow over this city. And there is nothing. You can do. To stop it."

Jim tried to speak, but the effort was too much. His mouth opened, before his head rolled to his side, unconscious. Slade scoffed, and rose to his feet and drawing a pistol from a holster.

"Finally had enough, Commissioner? Well, you made it fun at least."

He pointed the gun down at his head, and clicked the safety off. "Goodnight, Jim."

Wilson's hand was stayed by a motion in the corner of his eye. He looked to the entrance of the alley as the rain fell around them. A cloaked figure was watching him, with eyes solid red. It spoke in a clear, smooth tone.

"I would advise against hurting him any further. Your quarrel is with me now, Slade."

"My reputation precedes me." Wilson commented, turning away from Jim just enough to point the gun at the stranger. "Though I can't really say we're in mutual situations. I would leave now."

"I will not." The stranger said. He stepped forward, his eyes peering out from beneath a blue hood, attached to the cloak wrapped around his body. His face was all but pitch darkness under it, but what few fragments retained their color were—unless Slade was going crazy—green.

"Well _that'_s certainly more than a skin condition." He noted, curious. "But my generosity has reached it's limit."

He fired the pistol, and the round smacked square into the man's lips. It bounced away harmlessly. The eyes, unblinking, focused on Slade. He enunciated the next phrase with all the meaning it could be given.

"This is your last warning. The Commissioner, and his men, are under my protection."

The stranger's arm reached from inside of his cloak, tossing a spherical object Slade's way. It was the sparking, detached head of one of his droids. Slade glanced at it, and back at him. "What do you call yourself, creature?"

"Just a man." The figure responded. "A man who hunts men like yourself."

"Hmph."

Slade tossed the pistol to the ground, reaching to his back. His hands retrieved a pair of swords, one for each hand. He leaned into a combat stance as he stared down the intruder on his time with the Commissioner, and told him, "Congratulations, your hunt has led you to me. But that wasn't a very wise idea."

Slade charged, swinging both of his blades at the mysterious man's right side. His blue cloak shifted, and an arm rose to parry. Both blades impacted him, but stopped at the skin. It was like trying to cut a solid block of steel. The free hand of the stranger reached out and grabbed Slade by the throat, instantly cutting off his windpipe and lifting him into the air. Wilson began to choke, vainly attempting to pry away the fingers at his neck. They were stronger than any man's, and held without effort. The arm swung around, and slammed Slade into the alley's wall. He released, and Slade instantly took the opportunity to plunge both blades through the cloak and into his chest. The blades shattered from the strain. The stranger's leg lifted up and stretched straight out, kicking Slade into the wall and pinning him there. The criminal struggled, but couldn't budge the leg. It was as if an entire battleship was pressing him against the wall.

Feeling his pelvis a pound of pressure away from being crushed, Slade growled, "What _are_ you?"

Not budging his leg, the stranger raised his hands to his hood, and pulled it back. His face was like a man's, but his head was bald, and strangely angular at the back, and he had no ears to speak of. His hairless brows furrowed, and with purpose in his voice he told the man:

"What I have already told you. A man, who will defend his home from evil."

He let his leg down, and brought his arm up, punching the wall beside Slade. A hole no less than six feet in diameter was blown in. He was only inches from the mask.

"I am the Manhunter. And none of your kind are safe."

He took a step back, and pointed out of the alley. "Go, Slade. And do not stop until you have left the city. I will know if you have not."

For a moment, Wilson hesitated. He stopped to stare at the strange creature for a moment. Then, he turned and walked away. No more words were shared.

The Manhunter looked back at Jim, frowning as he saw his physical state. He approached, lifting the Commissioner up in his arms.

"You need to get out of the rain, James."

He turned and, with his human cargo, stepped through the wall.


	14. Chapter 14

"Commissioner? Commissioner Gordon? James, you there? John get over here, he's waking up!"

Gordon came to groggy and with absolutely no desire to be conscious. His body felt like it had just been sacked by the Visigoths. His head pulsated with a fresh dose of pain every couple of seconds, and something was keeping him from moving his left arm. A pair of scabbed hands pressed his glasses to his face, giving him a bit more sight. Only a bit; they'd been smashed all to hell in the fight, and he was staring through broken lenses at Renee Montoya. She seemed concerned, but in truth she looked as bad as Jim felt.

Wait. Montoya? So he wasn't dead, then. The surroundings around him began to fade in from the featureless blur he'd seen before. He was back inside the warehouse, propped against a far wall. John Blake was hobbling over, using a shotgun for an improvised crutch, with a first aid kit. Strewn across the floor, the shattered remains of the Workerbeez could been seen in massive heaps of carnage. There had to be enough parts to make over a hundred of the cursed things.

Gordon opened his mouth, and could tell at once that it felt very dry; he could certainly use a drink soon. "Montoya… we won?"

"Yes." Renee told him, before averting her eyes. "And… no."

"What?"

Jim stared at her dumbfounded as John approached, clicking open the box and attending to the Commissioner's arm. As he formed a sling for it, Renee explained, "Everyone survived sir. But, as best as we can recall, we all went down. When we came to, we found you in the corner, with the tar beaten out of you."

She looked back at the decimated droids, and Jim replied "If you're thinking I did all this, Detective, I'm afraid not. Slade… Slade beat my ass pretty hard, tell the truth. I passed out; I wasn't even inside here when I went out."

Renee bit her lip, staring again at the wrecked machines in confusion. "Then… somebody came in here, trashed _every last WorkerBee_, and _then _went outside, fought off Wilson, and dragged you in here? And then left? I don't think there's a man alive that could've done that, Commissioner."

"I do." Replied Blake, never taking his eyes away from his work. Gordon glanced to his subordinate and slowly nodded. He knew what it meant very well. He felt strangely serene as he gazed at Montoya, a faint smile beneath his bushy mustache.

"He's back."

On the other side of the room, Victor Sage was crouched over a droid, his hands rubbing a bit of the Pseudoderm he'd ripped from its face. He felt it beneath his grip, deep in thought. He glanced back, and saw the others were pre-occupied. Nobody noticed as he ripped the material from several WorkerBeez, and hid it within his coat's pockets. He could vividly remember a green face standing in the dark rain. He would find it.

_Not Batman. Definitely not Batman. But something strong, and inhuman. What though, beyond that? I suppose that's the question…_

Harvey Bullock stumbled back in from outside, his doughy frame barely keeping him aloft after the beating he'd taken. He moved quickly, though, waving frantically for Gordon. "Yo, Commish! Just got news from dispatch!"

Gordon looked his way and called back, "Any news on Slade? Sightings?"

Harvey reached them, shaking his head as he panted. "No, no. Something else. Haly's Circus. Total freakin' chaos, a shooting."

As Harvey flapped his hands around to supplement his words, Gordon's face paled. Cold sweat bunched up around the cuts on his face. "What's happened?" he demanded. "Is Barbara safe? Spit it out!"

Three sausages of fingers went up, counting the numbers. "Three, three casualties before the cops showed up. A pair of acrobats named John and Mary Grayson, and the shooter."

"The shooter?!" Jim balked. Harvey nodded and added on:

"Yeah, the shooter 'cause, you're not gonna believe it. The eyewitnesses are sayin' that—"

"Batman showed up."

The wind was sucked right out of Bullock's sails, and he looked at his superior disappointedly. "Yeah, how'd ya know?"

Gordon just smirked and told him, "Call it a lucky guess." The Commissioner rose back to his feet, Montoya balancing him as Victor walked over to them. Gordon looked over them once, and nodded slowly. "You've all done your jobs. You're good soldiers."

He looked at Montoya in particular, and reassured her with a smile. "Every one. All of you go home, and rest; you've sure as hell earned it."

Bullock, Montoya and Sage all said their goodbyes, and returned to the cruisers, leaving Blake and Gordon as the only souls in the warehouse.

"Detective?"

"Let me help you home sir, you're hurt."

Jim chuckled and patted his man on the shoulder. "You're a good kid, Blake. I'm not heading home just yet, but, if you'd like you could follow me to the station. It's high-time something changed around here, and I think I know the first step…"

* * *

The normally inky-black night of Gotham's edges was lit up in red and blue. A police blockade that must have consisted of half the force was gathered up around the gaudily colored circus tent. Ambulances were on the scene to take away those who looked like they might have been hurt.

Normally, the first ones on those vehicles would have been Bruce and Barbara. With no coats to warm them, they leaned up against one another, sitting on the ground near the tent. The line of blockades and officers kept the nosey reporters from getting anywhere near the battered children, who had insisted they be allowed to stay at the site, for the sake of their friend.

Bruce's arm was wrapped around Dick's shoulder, pulling him into the huddle. Barbara felt strangely detached, looking at the situation from an outside perspective. To anyone else or, well, even to her, before tonight, this might have seemed strange. Three people her age, cuddling up like this. It felt, sometimes, like even the concept of physical contact with others that didn't fall under the category of lover or mortal enemy was some kind of taboo. But tonight, it felt right.

She watched the officers going by them silently, hoping for some sign of her father. She hadn't seen him yet. All three of them were listening quietly to the snippets of conversations they could catch between the officers.

"…guy's name was Lawton. Records say he had a daughter, man. She's only fourteen…"

"Damn, that's heavy. Hope I'm not the one telling her…"

"Hey Ronnie, you see those kids over there?"

"What about 'em? That's the Graysons' son, right?"

"Yeah, but that other kid. That's Bruce Wayne, swear to God."

"No way…"

Bruce and Dick shut out those conversations, and the former tapped Barbara's shoulder. She looked where he pointed, at the distinguished figure cutting a strapping figure in the midst of the variously rotund, scruffy, or sloppy officers of the GPD. Alfred Pennyworth was standing in the rain, a dark umbrella shielding him and obscuring his somber face in shadow as he spoke with a red-headed, pudgy sort of fellow in a sergeant's uniform. They had been speaking for some time, and finally seemed to be wrapping up. The pair turned and marched up to the trio of teenagers, Alfred's thin hand lifting Barbara to her feet. Bruce and Dick rose together, and stared at the officer. Mr. Pennyworth gestured to him and explained.

"Masters Bruce and Grayson, Miss Barbara, this is Sergeant O'Hara. We've been discussing the matter of Master Grayson's situation."

The officer removed his hat, holding his hat and clutching it to his breast, revealing his balding head for all to see. He bowed his head towards Dick, and in a thick Irish accent told him "My deepest condolences, Mr. Grayson. Tonight's been a tragedy. I can assure you that Crane won't be seeing the outside of Arkham for the rest of his—"

His beady, brown eyes caught sight of the horribly distraught expression on Dick's face, and he shut himself up immediately. The sergeant could see this was not a subject that he wished to discuss. He coughed into a fist, and moved on to other matters. "I've, er, I've been on the phone with a few of the folks down in social services. Presented your situation best as I could, Mr. Grayson, but they're telling me there's no way in Mother Mary's name they'll let a minor stay on the circus with no legal guardian there for 'em."

Dick's eyes widened as the reality dug into his skin. He would be leaving the circus. "N-no, no, I can get a legal guardian!" he insisted. "What about C.C. Haly? I'm sure he'd be my guardian!"

O'Hara gave a sad little smile at the boy, and nearly choked on his own sympathy as he said "Aye, boy, he would and by God, he tried. Came to me himself and pleaded his case, anything to keep you out of the blasted adoption system we've got in this abominable city… but they're denying him, lad. Saying there's too much suspicion he'd be keeping you around for the work you'd do. It's just not an option."

His head bowed even further as he whispered, "I'm sorry."

Dick frowned, slowly shaking his head. Bruce tightened the pressure of the hand on his friend's shoulder, unsure of how to comfort him. Barbara was just as lost, watching with a troubled look from Wayne's other side. Alfred cleared his throat.

"Normally, this would mean you would go into Gotham's foster care system, Master Grayson, but… Well, it certainly would not be ideal, like remaining with the circus. But I've been discussing it with the Sergeant and social services, and they seem open to an alternative."

"What's that?" Barbara asked, her curiosity overtaking her.

Alfred seemed to take a moment to gather himself, and said "If… I do pray I'm not over-stepping my boundaries, Master Grayson. But I'm told that if I were to adopt you, there would be no need to put you into the system."

Dick seemed surprised, to say the least. He stood rigid and his eyes glassed over as the consequences of such a plan seemed to play out in his mind. Bruce and Barbara watched him diligently but, eventually, he looked towards Bruce. A strange little glimmer in his eyes was hard to read. But Barbara was fairly certain she had a word for it. Hope.

Bruce responded in turn with a reassuring smile. "We'd be glad to have you."

Barbara nodded enthusiastically, doing everything she could to sweeten the deal with her encouragement. She couldn't think of a tactful way to put it, but she hoped that Dick would agree. She was all for another friend, and was confident it would be good for Grayson as well.

It took a moment, but an upward curve tugged at the edges of Dick's lips. Though it was fleeting, the smile was genuine. "I… I think I'd like that."

The warmth that passed through the others was a welcome reprieve on this bitter Halloween night. A shot of hope that they all desperately needed, that some good may come of all this tragedy. Alfred offered the umbrella to the children, finally shielding them from the rain as he stood diligently in the soaking precipitation. "If you'd like Master Grayson, I can fetch your things and have them placed within the limousine. You can move in tonight, if you wish."

Dick nodded slowly. "Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth, but…" he stared longingly at the trailer that was once the home he shared with his parents. "I'll get my things myself. It's something I need to do myself."

"It's part of the crime scene, whole thing's blocked out, nobody allowed in or out." O'Hara interrupted. Dick's expression grew dimmer, only for the sergeant to smile deviously and whip out his badge. "Come with me, lad, I'll getcha in."

Dick couldn't help but give a huff of amusement, slowly walking towards the trailer with the officer. Barbara, Bruce and Alfred were left alone. Alfred looked towards Barbara and offered, "I could bring you to your home on the way, Miss Barbara?"

She smiled wearily and nodded, adding "That'd be _great._" Nothing sounded better to her than going home and seeing her father. Seeing her brother, even. Just to talk on the phone with her mother would be a wonderful thing. A dark thought she couldn't escape, that she was the only one of her closest friends with a family left unscarred by this city. She grieved for them, but she would cherish what she still had.

Bruce, meanwhile, remained silent. The other two looked at him and were met with a steely gaze. They were looking at Batman now.

"Alfred." He said quietly. "Send a signal out and bring the Batmobile up to Dredge Street, two blocks north of here. There's an alley big enough to hide it."

The butler stammered, caught off guard by the sudden order. "Of course, Master Bruce, but… why?"

Bruce nodded towards the sky. "I'm still needed tonight."

Before they had even looked, Barbara could hear the growing din. Murmurs became shouts of surprise, as the crowd in the distance called out surprised exclamations of "Look! Up in the sky!" "What is that?!"

She spun on her heel, looking up into the air and following the pointing fingers as startled eyes of the masses. What she saw nearly made her heart stop.

The clouds rolling over the city were nearly black. But rising from the city, a single beam of light was burning brightly and casting a yellow canvas against this roiling canopy. Nearly a perfectly circle, but in its center was the true source of the shock, the terror that some felt in their hearts, and the bewildered enthusiasm in Barbara's. A black silhouette bared itself against the night sky, spreading its wings for the whole world to see. A black bat, its frame looming like a sentinel over Gotham's highest buildings and looking down on the fragile world beneath. In a single image, Batman's message was visualized. He had branded the night itself. It no longer belonged to the criminals. It was _his. Theirs._ Gotham's, once more.

All these words played through Barbara's mind as she felt the poetic impact of the moment. She swore she could hear a swell of strings and powerful brass, a movement of power and nobility. Bruce smiled and whispered to himself.

"A Bat Signal. I like it."

* * *

Thirty minutes later, the signal of the Dark Knight continued to plaster itself to the clouds above. At the Gotham Police Department, Jim Gordon stood on the roof alone. He'd sent John home some time ago, leaving him alone. Alone, and free from prying eyes. After a few teasing false starts, he managed to ignite his lighter, and pressed its flickering yellow tips against the end of his cigar. It lit up like a tiny torch, and he bit into its butt with relish. The smoke relieved him as he watched the rain splatter against the lenses of his spare eyeglasses. He took a deep breath, and exhaled a blue-gray cloud from his nostrils, watching the scene he had created.

This was it. The official declaration. War on the criminal scum and Gotham. And Gordon had just announced his first, and greatest ally. Once people realized where the signal was coming from, there would be an uproar. He knew it. The lax citizens would call him a fascist, an anarchist, a socialist, any kind of ist they thought accurately described a monster, for supporting someone outside of the law. Every criminal in Gotham would be gunning directly for his head, for daring to support their greatest foe.

He took another puff, and spat it out into the soggy air.

"Bring it on." He told them.

A voice called out behind him. A familiar one. "I chose well when I picked you, Commissioner."

He'd been expecting it, but it still spooked him. Gordon played it off as best as he could, turning around with a forced expression of calm, looking at the shadow standing on the edge of the roof. The glowing white eyes stared at him with an imperceptible analysis being performed, scrutinizing the Comissioner.

"Still as disturbingly quiet as always, I see."

They stepped closer to one another, Jim getting another look at the costume that had broken into his own office not so long ago. It felt different, seeing it now. Then, it had been intimidating. Horrifying, even, when he knew he was fighting the thing. But now, it felt different. Still powerful, but… maybe noble wasn't the right word. But it was close. The suit was immaculate, but the mouth and jaw that it showed were battered and bloodied. He'd been busy.

"What is this?" Batman demanded, obviously referring to the light. Jim backed up to it and slapped it with his working hand.

"This? It's a symbol. I don't like you working outside of the law, Batman. But this department, this city, they need to know that you're always there, watching out for them. And the men you fight, well, they need a reminder that you're _looking_ for them. You're the best weapon we've got in this fight, and I'd be a fool not to see it."

He stretched out the hand and offered it. "I'm giving you my support, Batman. Whatever I can get you, you'll have."

Batman stood stalwart, and for a moment Jim thought he'd turn and walk away. But then the next, the Dark Knight took his hand and shook it.

"All I need from you," the Bat told him. "is the promise that you'll never stop fighting the good fight. You're the kind of man this city needs. Not me."

Jim smirked and gave a grim chuckle. "God, I wish I could believe that. I can promise that and more."

"Good." The man in the cowl told him. "Go home now, Jim. Be with your family."

"I will;" Jim answered, a twinge of relieved happiness beneath his professional tone. "I'd suggest you do the same; we've both had a long night."

"There'll be longer."

Jim took a moment to let his gaze linger on the signal in the sky. With a flip of a switch, the light powered down. "Eh, I'll be ready for 'em. Will you?"

…No response. Jim turned to look. The Batman was already gone.


	15. Chapter 15

"But, I wanna wait for dad!"

"I know, James, but you've got school tomorrow. You need your rest; off with you."

James Gordon, Jr. crossed his arms and puffed out his cheeks in annoyance, standing in front of the couch. Barbara was draped across the sofa, groggily rubbing her eyes as sleep beckoned for her. It was getting harder to stay awake, but she'd determined to wait for her father to get home.

The biggest obstacle in her path at the moment was her kid brother, who wanted to stay up with her. She'd seen the kid sleep through things much more important than school if he got his rest disrupted, and she didn't want to be the one responsible when his principal came calling.

_How does Mom deal with this brat_? She wondered. She noticed that the boy's cheeks were turning a curious shade of purple. _Oh, great. He's holding his breath._

She just arched an eyebrow and waited for him to ride out his hissy fit. It didn't last very long before he spat out his breath, and panted, "You said you would tell me why you got beat up if I went to bed!"

Barbara sighed, pressing her index and middle fingers up against her forehead, leaning into the tips. The pressure felt soothing, in its odd little way. She flicked the hand away, gesturing idly with it as she propped herself up on her other arm to look at him. "Well, yeah, but I won't know you've held up your end of the bargain until you actually go to bed. I'll tell you at breakfast, now please, just go to sleep."

James glared at her, but the little flickering in his eyes told her that she'd won. He began to slink way, slowly moving up the stairs and back to his room. She sighed in relief, resting her head on the sofa arm and staring at the bland ceiling. God, what a day. It felt so distant now, she could hardly believe it was real. But she had a briefcase in her room hat was proof that it had happened. There had been more tragedy than she ever wanted to think about again.

But there were bright notes, in it all. She'd made a new friend. She and Dick hadn't talked much on the ride back, but that felt all right to her. There wasn't anything that needed to be said. The silence was calming, peaceful. She had left the limousine wordlessly, only waving and smiling back to Alfred and the young boy as they drifted off into the waiting darkness of Gotham City.

She'd found James waiting for her. But it hadn't taken much to get him out of the way. With her mother not due back home for another week or so, the only thing left to do was wait for…

A jingling of keys outside the door alerted her. She flipped herself around an sat up in her seat, staring at the door the same moment her father stepped in, seeing her there.

She hopped up and took a step closer, unable to believe what she was seeing. Her father stepped forward as well, into the light of their home and shutting the door. He was a barely-treated shamble of injuries, coated in gauze that had been stained red in a dozen spots. His arm was hanging limply, like it'd hurt if it so much as twitched. The look of shock on his face told her that he was getting a similar impression from her.

They stood like that, just a few feet apart, for quite some time. Frozen in the middle of their actions, examining the terrible injuries they'd each sustained.

As a minute, be it the first or fifteenth clicked by on the clock on the wall, Barbara smiled. Her lips split apart, and slowly but surely a few small chuckles grew into a loud, happy laugh. Her father joined in a second later, and they embraced, guffawing so much that their sides hurt.

Jim barely managed to choke out "I guess your day was as bad as mine, huh?"

Barbara squeezed him tighter and chuckled back, "You have _no _idea, Dad."

He put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her back far enough so he could get a good look at her face. "Barbara," he asked quietly. "I didn't get as much information as I'd have liked… is everything okay? If there's anything you want to talk about…"

Barbara grinned and hugged her father again, shaking her head. "I'd just like to stay like this a little longer, if that's okay."

Jim chuckled, patting her on the head before tucking it beneath his chin. "Sure thing, angel. Sure thing."

* * *

Dick Grayson laid in a bed that was softer than anything he'd ever felt. It was like he was suspended on a cloud. He hated it. It reminded him of the sensation he felt flying through the air, waiting for the moment his mother would grab him by the wrists to toss him even higher into the sky. The roar of the cheering fans, the flashing lights of cameras… none of that. None of that would ever come again.

He stared at the warm, earthy tones of the ceiling, his legs crossed. The realization was sinking in slowly, like a great weight pressing down with subtle, patient force. Everything was gone. His family, his home, his life. His things were strewn around him, but he was in a strange place, with admittedly strange people. But not so strange.

He'd known Bruce and Barbara for a single day, and yet, it was a strange thought to know that they were the closest friends he had, outside of the circus. Bruce had been gone when he came back with his bags, and he had shared few words with Barbara since. Yet the connection was there. He couldn't tell what his life would be like here. But it was a life, and that was a start.

A gentle rapping at the door alerted him to the butler standing in the frame, looking in. Dick soundlessly hopped off the bed and approached as Alfred brought in his last bag, setting it beside the door.

"I believe that's everything, Master Grayson. Is there anything else you require at the moment? I'm not sure if you're one for cider, but—"

"I'm good, thank you Mr. Pennyworth." Dick assured him, bowing slightly before reaching into the bag. He peeked inside to check its contents before zipping it back up, for the moment. "But if it's all right, could you just call me Dick? It feels kinda weird, all the formality."

"As you wish." Alfred replied with an accommodating grin. The butler coughed, clearing his throat as he determined the best way to broach the topic that needed to be broached.

"I can only imagine what you're going through right now, Dick, and I know that this house can feel very empty at times. But, please do remember, Master Bruce and I will be here for you for anything."

Dick's face sombered, and he nodded quickly. "I'll be fine." He assured Pennyworth. "I'm just… gonna need some time. It's weird to think about."

He sighed, and let his shoulders droop. "I'm all alone, now."

Alfred's face scrunched up in an expression of hurt that went deeper than the present situation. He bent down and put his hand on Dick's shoulder, looking him square in the eye.

"Dick, eight years ago there was a boy standing in the same spot that you are now. And right now, I'm going to tell you something that I wish every day of my life I'd told that little boy: I believe, with every ounce of strength in my heart, that you'll never be alone again."

Grayson smiled, sadly and weakly. But a smile nonetheless. Alfred smiled back, and straightened his posture. He moved for the door, saying, "I've left some tea out for you, if you get thirsty. If you require any food, just let me know. Goodnight, Dick."

Alfred's faint footsteps gently carried off into the recesses of the mansion, leaving Dick to whisper "Goodnight" to an empty room. He stood still for a moment, unsure of what to do, when a blip from his laptop caught his attention. He'd received a new message. He hopped over, leaping onto the bed and checking who it was from.

A link sat in the chatbox, an image from one of his common chat room pals. He read the message as he waited for the image to open.

"I still say the cape looks better with the yellow on the outside, too, but hopefully this is what you're looking for." read the words of KRayn87. A moment later, the whole image was loaded. Dick nodded as he took in the details. It was perfect.

Another knock. He looked up, and this time it was Bruce in the door.

"Hey." Wayne said. Dick nodded at him.

"Hey."

Bruce stepped in, looking around slowly. He seemed lost in thought, like memories were flooding back to him. "We haven't used this room since I was a kid. It was just wasted space; are you liking it?"

"Yeah, it's… it's nice." Dick said. Honestly, it was rather intimidating. A strange room was bad enough, but this place had more than half the square-footage of his entire trailer. He wasn't used to this much space. "What _did _you use it for? Before, I mean?"

Bruce scratched his chin, trying to think back to those days. "I think… I think it might have been a guest room, actually. I remember my father always bringing visitors to this room to put their things. A lot of relatives and stuff."

"Oh." Dick replied. He smacked himself in his head, he needed to say more.

"L-listen, I'm not very good with this sort of thing, but… I want to thank you. Really. You didn't have to do this."

"No, I did." Bruce told him, holding a hand out to stop him. "After today, I'd never be able to live with myself if I didn't do something."

The boy walked over, sitting down on the bed, looking towards the wall. "I'm in a position a lot of people only dream about. If I can put my talents, my possessions to use in some way to help, then I can't just let it go to waste."

Dick stared at him for a moment, absorbing that statement. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"Yeah," Bruce murmured. "I do." He turned himself around to look at the newest resident of Wayne Manor, and leaned forward just a bit. "So if there's anything—_anything_—that I can do, tell me."

Dick pursed his lips, assessing his words. "There's one thing."

"Name it."

Dick's countenance took on a startling severity. "This… thing you're doing. Batman. Helping people. I want in. I want you to train me."

Bruce didn't say anything. A painful silence gripped the room and choked the breath from it. As he waited for an answer, Dick began to fidget nervously, frustration growing. He was ready to yell, and demand some kind of response.

Bruce's voice was so quiet it was nearly a whisper.

"You'll need a name."

Grayson's response was instantaneous, swiveling the laptop around to show the screen to Bruce. The image he'd received from his friend was on display. A suit, sleek and stylish, made of reds blacks and yellows. But most striking was the bright yellow R inscribed on the suit's breast. The boy's face was frowning, his brow furrowed into a semblance of anger.

Bruce could see the tears that this expression was trying to hide.

"Robin. My name will be Robin."

* * *

"Things have not gone according to plan."

The voice of the brash young man was strong, and loud in such an enclosed space. Between the floors of Gotham's towers, beady eyes stared from pale white masks at their ilk, gathered around a table hastily. There were events to discuss, plans to adjust. Foremost in all their thoughts was the newest face in Gotham. The symbol that now flew in their night skies.

An older man called back to the boy, "Do not speak out of turn. There is no such _thing_ as a plan going exactly as planned. These developments were to be anticipated."

"How so?" the young one called back, defiantly. He rose from his chair, palm slamming to the table as he gestured to the strange new world outside. One stalked by bats. "Our operative is dead."

"We never needed Floyd Lawton." A crinkly, old woman's voice crooned. "He has a daughter. We shall send her the money we promised her father. She will know what to do with it."

"And besides!" a portly man bellowed with booming tones. "The Graysons are dead, either way. This city works in beautiful ways, as I'm sure you'll learn. A new dark disease behind every corner, waiting for the right catalyst."

The youngest man sat down, shaking his head, still unsure of it all but forced to relent. "But so many uncounted variables… we never anticipated the second Bat. And now he's gotten his hands on the last Grayson. I say it's time we took action. We should wake the T—"

"Calm yourself." Came the voice of their head. All the muttering voices shut up at once to direct their attention at him. His relaxed poise exuded casual authority. He need not try to exert himself; they already bowed to him without effort. "Our weapon shall sleep for a bit longer. We have other agents at our disposal."

The shadowed figure slid an object across the table to the upstart. He picked it up and examined it carefully. A deck of cards.

"You know what that means, yes? Go and fetch them. Now."

The youth frantically bowed to his master and dashed from the room and out of sight. The silhouette shook his head slowly. "Such exuberance, yet tempered by ignorance. The Batman's nest grows, but he can see only one branch of a grand old tree. This city is older and deeper than he will ever know. Than he could ever know. Let him try and untangle the gnarled roots. Perhaps he will be of use to us. Slade has eluded our grasp, and there are whispers of something _else_ lurking in our shadows. We shall stay back, and allow these forces to collide, and guide the results. Until then…"

He leaned forward, and the light illuminated his mask, as snow-white and featureless as the others. But his hair was as white as the mask, and hints of his skin could be seen around the edges. Skin as gray as the rainclouds over Gotham.

"Until then, keep your ears to the ground. I would know everything that goes on in my Court."

* * *

Rain tapped lightly on the window panes. Remil Sionis was sitting on the sofa, staring outside. The TV was off, so he could better hear the rain. He popped an Oreo into his mouth and slowly chewed. He could faintly make out the sound of snoring, as his roommate slumbered on, unhindered by the events of the night.

He had seen it. Everyone had seen it. The yellow blot of light in their sky, and the bat that inhabited it. They had been shown a new order. A new owner of the night. He smiled. The words of his friend echoed in his mind, of the boy she'd known. He repeated them quietly.

"Find what I want… what the world needs. And do that."

He silently looked toward her room, thanking her and wishing her well in her dreams. And then he looked back outside. Red eyes blinked, and watched the rain peacefully drop to the world below. He smiled.

"I think I can do that."


End file.
